


Perchance to Dream

by Garrae



Category: Castle
Genre: Angst, F/M, Nightmares, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-01
Updated: 2014-09-02
Packaged: 2018-02-15 17:27:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 44
Words: 103,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2237397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Garrae/pseuds/Garrae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"She's falling down the rabbit hole of her obsession, but completely unable to stop."</p><p>Her mother's case haunts Beckett's sleep and the only thing stopping her nightmares is being with Castle. Season Two, post the almost kiss in Vampire Weekend.<br/>All characters belong to ABC and Marlowe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I Dreamed A Dream

_“You smell like cherries.”_

Castle’s dreaming of cherry pie: tart and sweet both at once, and oh-so-delicious on the mouth and tongue; crisp pastry to be broken and crumbled, the sharp shock of the filling and the satisfaction when he rolls it round his palate.  He’s drooling on his pillows when he wakes, unsurprisingly hungry.  Cereal and coffee finished, after Alexis has left for school , he still can’t get the enticing notion of cherry pie, possibly, delectably, with cream, out of his head.

It’s a bit strange.  Cherry pie hasn’t really figured in his kitchen or his imagination previously.  He tries to take care of himself, most of the time, and while dessert is surely an invention of some unknown miracle worker back in the beginning of time, he’s well aware that unless he wants to be rather more cushiony than photogenic he needs to restrict it.  He’s not that keen on jogging or the gym, though he forces himself to do both and is quite proud, in an entirely masculine way, of the resistance levels he pushes against when he’s weight training.  He’d prefer other forms of exercise, but he hasn’t found a suitable…training partner… for a while.  Well.  That’s not true.  He has found one he thinks would be good.  But she won’t train with him.

He likes to stay in shape.  It would just be so utterly humiliating not to be able to keep up with Beckett, a woman who can run faster in 4-inch heels than he can on a treadmill.  For longer.  And of course, he wouldn’t want her to laugh at his physical abilities.  Laughter’s definitely not the emotion he’s aiming for. 

And suddenly he realises why he’s dreamed of cherry pie.  Beckett smells of cherries, and he only found it out, for all his observations of her, when she leaned over him to look at that drawing.  She was almost, almost, near enough to kiss – and then Ryan and Esposito came in and she drew back depressingly fast and the moment was gone.  Again.  In his more paranoid imaginings, he suspects Ryan and Esposito of deliberately waiting until they could break up any possibility of a moment.  Because after all, what else is letting Beckett deny the tension between them, if it’s not just the boys getting in the way all the time.  She can’t possibly have missed _him_ appreciating _her_.  And he is absolutely certain, from all his ill-gotten experience, that she feels the same.  Not that she admits it.

He wanders off to his study – there’s been no murder call this morning yet to allow him to procrastinate – to flip open his laptop and attempt to write.  But soon enough he’s back in a reverie where Detective Beckett is eating cherry pie in his kitchen and he’s watching her lick crumbs from her lips – _mmmm_ – and there is an infuriatingly sexy little smudge of cherry filling to the side of her mouth that he could just clean up with his tongue and then…

And then his phone rings.  It’s not Beckett, it’s not a body, it’s not an excuse to go via a bakery and take cherry pie to the Twelfth.  It’s Gina, ex-wife, publisher and nemesis, demanding to know why he hasn’t submitted the next chapter.   “It was due a week ago, Richard, and what’s your lame excuse this time?”  He makes his apologies and settles down, forces himself to start writing, and then the words begin to flow so freely that before he knows it he’s written three good chapters and is embarking on a fourth.

Eventually inspiration runs out, several thousand more words later, and reality settles in.  It’s mid-afternoon and he’s skipped lunch somehow.  He e-mails two chapters to Gina (that way he’ll still have a bone to throw her when she’s next demanding he deliver) and wanders around the loft, picking up and putting down, unable to settle to a movie or a game or a book or anything.   So he does what he always does when he’s bored, and takes off to the precinct to annoy Beckett and trade quips with Ryan and Esposito.  If there hasn’t been a murder, then it’s only right to give them all a break from the paperwork, right?  It’s practically his public duty to ensure that New York’s finest are not made stale, flat and unprofitable by staring at unrelieved paperwork all day.  And – he bounces happily – he’ll go via a bakery and take them all cherry pie.  The fact that disrupting the precinct with food will irritate the hell out of Beckett is just the filling in the pie.

* * *

In the precinct, Beckett, Ryan and Esposito are in the middle of a low-voiced, but nevertheless intense, argument.  Beckett’s not winning.

“But Beckett, when we came in you were practically in his lap.  Can’t tell us that was a discussion about the case.”

“Shut up, Ryan.  Nothing to see.  Case is closed.”

“Yeah,” says Esposito disbelievingly.  “Didn’t look like nothing to us.  We hadn’t come in, you’d’ve been kissing.”  The last word is stretched out and delivered in an irritating playground chant.

“Nothing to see, boys.”  Her tone is getting strained and sharper.

“Don’t believe you.”

And of course at that moment Castle walks in carrying a large bakery box with a canister of whipped cream and says “What don’t you believe?”

Beckett throws up her hands in a gesture of total disgust and thumps down in her chair, hands moving to hold her head.  “Now my day is perfectly complete,” she groans.

Ryan and Esposito grin at Castle.  “Beckett won’t admit she was kissing you,” they smirk.

Castle’s torn.  It would be so much fun to really wind Beckett up here, but if he does that then she will assuredly maim and kill him.  Which would not be a good start to what he’s aiming for, which is Beckett for dessert, so to speak.  He gets some game on.

“Well,” he begins, “she wasn’t kissing me.” The boys groan.  Beckett rolls her eyes, though he thinks there’s a measure of thankful relief there.  Ryan and Esposito must really have been putting the pressure on.  “But to make up for your understandable disappointment I brought some food.”

The boys are over in instants.  Castle opens the box and reveals the pie, to lip-smacking approval from all around him.  Except that there’s a silence where one noise of approval ought to be.  Looking round, there’s a Beckett-shaped hole in the bullpen.  He leaves the mass of hungry detectives to their argument about dividing up the pie, hoping that there will be at least a small slice and some cream left for him, and slips out of the ravenous mass.  (honestly, it’s like the worst zombie movie he’s ever seen)  He spots the trailing edge of a high heel disappearing round the corner and follows.

Beckett’s aiming for the back stairs when she hears the footsteps trotting behind her.  She barely refrains from cursing out loud: she was hoping to get away from people.  Everyone.  She’s been put on edge by Esposito and Ryan teasing her and she’s not in the mood for Castle’s bouncy, irritating self-satisfaction.

“Hey, Beckett.  You’re missing out on my pie.  It’s delicious cherry,  and I even brought whipped cream.”

“I don’t like pie.”  Cherry pie.  What sort of an idiot does he think she is?  Could he be more obvious?  He announces to half the bullpen that she smells like cherries and then turns up with cherry pie oblivious to the crap that she’ll have to deal with when he leaves.  “Go away, Castle.  Seeing as you’ve turned my desk into the service counter of a diner I can’t do any work, so I’m going home.”

“Aw, Beckett, c’mon.  How can you not like pie?”  Well, there are a lot of answers to that.  Too solid for her taste, too big for one person.  But mostly, too many memories of her mother baking when she was small and the smell of pie twining round their home.  She doesn’t go to bakeries that sell pie.  She doesn’t bake, either.  In fact, she barely cooks.  Takeout works just fine, when she remembers.  She’s at the precinct so much that filling her fridge is pointless: just a route to strange-coloured mould cultures that might once have been food.

Castle’s a bit confused.  He knows Beckett has a sweet tooth: she’s never short of M&Ms or gummibears.  He’d thought she’d love the pie.  But it seems, from the undertone edging her words, that he’s screwed up again.  He turns big blue eyes on her with his best puppy-dog look, which has no effect at all.

“I’m leaving, Castle.  Go back to your pie.  I’m sure it appreciates you.  Cupboard love, isn’t that what it’s called?”  Ouch.  Even for Beckett, that’s snarky.  By the time he’s thought of a retort she’s on the ground floor, leaving him internally wincing.  He trudges back to the bullpen and is somewhat consoled by the presence of a remaining slice of pie and enough cream to soothe his sore feelings.  He takes it home, eats it with luxurious enjoyment and thinks about Beckett some more.

She confuses him, and he doesn’t like being confused.  She’s whipcrack smart, and he’s not used to brains that can beat his.  She’s sex on legs, but she doesn’t behave like she knows it.  And she’s into him, but she’s not admitting it.  He needs some way to get to her, and he’s failed with every route he’s tried.  She’s turned down direct approaches, choked off flirtation, and stays a safe amount of personal space out the way.  He’s never spent this much time on someone so clearly unresponsive before.  He should quit and move on to an easier target.  Except. Except that when he leans too close her breath hitches, almost invisibly.  Except that she whispered,  “You have no idea” in a voice that would have aroused the dead at the close of their first case.  Except that she wanted him to kiss her the first time he saved her life.  Except that she smelt of cherries and was leaning into him and her eyes had been wide and dark.  Except that he can’t stay away from her.

So, how to solve the Beckett mystery. 

The issue: first: two lips, cherry ripe.  And unaccountably not regularly pressed to his.  Second, a lithe body, equally unaccountably not tucked into his.  Third, legs that go on forever, and still unaccountably not wrapped round him every night.  Summarised, he wants her.  But she won’t play. He ignores the tiny tweak in his chest that says that perhaps _playing_ isn’t quite where he’s at any more.

So that’s the issue identified.  How to get Beckett to play with him.


	2. A Time It All Went Wrong

Beckett takes the subway home, fighting her way through the early evening rush hour with the single goal of getting to her apartment and finding some peace and quiet.  She’s been rocked by the memories that the smell of pie brought back, and she needs some downtime to regroup: return to being Detective Beckett and away from that small hurt core that she keeps locked down inside her.  She’ll never again be the agonised person weeping for her mother, the daughter drowning in her own grief and not preventing her father from hitting the bottle, and worst of all, for all her years in Homicide, relentlessly searching for the truth, the evidence, the killer, the cop who’s failing to solve her mother’s murder.  She won’t be that person.  She’ll succeed.  She’ll be self-reliant, independent, solo.  No chance of creating new painful memories in her future.

She orders take-out, eats about half, puts the rest in the fridge where she might remember to finish it before it’s inedible.  She probably doesn’t eat enough, but she’s fit enough to do her job and that’s all that matters to her.  She can hold her own in defensive drills and sparring without a problem, she can run faster in heels than most of the detectives can in sneakers, and she can shoot straight.  What more does she need?

  Except that her  _shadow_ insinuates himself into her tidy self-contained life.  Except that she’s read every one of his books.  Except that he’s already heard more of her story than she’s ever told anyone else.  Except that deep down she  _likes_ him.

She tidies up, pours a glass of wine, picks up a book.  It’s an old detective novel, one of the English nineteen-thirties “Queens of Crime”.  She has an extensive collection, but _Gaudy Night_ is one of her favourite novels.  Well, when she isn’t reading Richard Castle’s books.  Not tonight.  She’s too irritated with him.  Stupid, oblivious, tactless idiot.  Always in the way, breaking up the flow, making her think about things she can’t have.  Oh.  Where did _that_ come from?  She puts the thought away, compartmentalises it in the box marked _Useless thoughts – do not open_ , and returns to the wine and the book.  She’s near the end: Harriet and Wimsey are punting and then Harriet will undergo the world-shaking shift of perception of Wimsey that changes everything.  She slams the book shut.  She doesn’t want to read that. She puts it away crossly and finds another, with no unfortunate connotations.  Maybe a nice bath to read this one in would relax her enough to sleep.

She doesn’t sleep well, as a rule.  Too many thoughts and regrets for the life she could, should, have had; too many murders that take too long to solve for the grieving families, their pain not helped by her practised compassion, no matter how sincere she is.  Too many nights solo: she hasn’t had a relationship since Sorenson and although she doesn’t miss him, she misses companionship, someone to share the pressure of work with, to give her reassurance and comfort at the end of a long day on duty.  Physical relief, if she wants it, which isn’t often, she can always deal with herself.  Likewise her mother’s case.

She goes to run the bath when there’s a rap on the door.  She knows that particular tenor and cadence.  It’s Castle.  What the hell is he doing here?  She has no desire to see him.  She ignores the door.  A few moments later her phone beeps with a text.   _Beckett, I know you’re in there.  Open the door._   She ignores that, too.  No point talking to a rich playboy who’s got everything he wants, Black Pawn’s golden child, and who for some reason wants to add her to the tally.  It’s only because she won’t give him what he wants: he’s a spoilt child who wants a toy he can’t have, will play with it for a short while, then break it and throw it away.  She doesn’t play that game.  Last time she thought she could, Sorenson sacrificed her on the altar of his career, without a second glance.  She’s better off on her own, successful detective, sky-high clear up rate, a good team around her.  Why rock the boat?

The phone beeps again, irritatingly persistent.  _Beckett, if you don’t let me in I’ll stand out here till you do.  Are you prepared to face the neighbours in the morning?_   She’s very tempted to call his bluff, except that she isn’t sure that it is a bluff.  He’s so confident of his own charm that he’d probably do it, and old Mrs Labowski will come out to see what’s going on and will then look reproachfully at her in the morning and tell her not to be so unkind to that nice, handsome man who was so desperate to see her he came to her door after 9.30pm, probably adding _Kate, you’ll never get married by behaving like that._   She doesn’t want to get married.  She can live without Mrs Labowski’s homespun wisdom and interference.  She took this apartment so that she didn’t have to meet anyone who lived in the block, didn’t have to get involved in their lives, didn’t have to have them interpolated in hers.  She goes to open the door.

“What are you doing here?”  She makes as if to shut the door. 

Castle smirks and says “If you shut the door in my face I’ll stay put out there.”  Temporarily defeated, she waves an unwelcoming hand in the vague direction of her living room and turns her back on him to go and switch off the water.  She doesn’t care if it’s rude: she didn’t invite him here and she just wants him to go away again.  When she returns he’s sitting on her couch with a smaller bakery box in front of him, the logo one of a new, trendy cupcake maker.  She doesn’t sit.  She doesn’t offer coffee, or wine, despite her half-drunk glass in full view on the table.

“What are you doing here, Castle,” she repeats.  “I don’t remember inviting you.  Did I miss some mysterious communication that said _I’m visiting Beckett tonight_?  And did I miss some further part where I agreed?”

“I brought you cupcakes.  Since you didn’t want any pie.  It seemed a bit unfair for you to miss out on all that lovely dessert.”  Castle is entirely unsure if this will work.  He’s just bulldozed his way into her apartment, largely by threatening her with the sort of embarrassment that he is confident she absolutely could not tolerate, and he’s bearing gifts for a woman who has made a habit of never taking anything from anyone.  But he needs to do something to try to move her closer.

The arctic glare from Beckett, still standing, makes him wonder if this is possibly his last act before dying.  If so, at least he’s earned some spiritual credit for trying to provide charity.

“If I had wanted dessert, I’d have got it myself.  I don’t need a mother.  Shut the door behind you when you leave, please.”  The icy tone doesn’t exactly leave room for misunderstanding.

She picks up her wine glass and marches out.  Castle hears the click of a door shutting and the noise of running water.  Um.  Well.  That has not gone as planned.  But since he’s here, he might as well take advantage of it.  He silently toes off his shoes, and pads through the living room, scrutinising the bookshelves, recognising his works with glee, looking at all the little items that make up a Beckett that he’s never seen.  He sits back down again with a certain amount of satisfaction at having stolen a march on Beckett, and then straightens, horrified, as he realises what she has just revealed by her word choice.  _I don’t need a mother_.  It’s then that he falls from only wanting Beckett in bed to something far deeper.  Beckett’s more wounded than he’d ever understood, back when he facilely said _You’re wounded.  But you’re not that wounded._   Oh shit, has he ever got that wrong.  And now he’s illicitly in her apartment when she told him to leave, and this is in no way going to go well when she reappears.

The bath is hot, and soothing, and Beckett doesn’t notice that her front door hasn’t opened and closed again.  She breathes a sigh of relief.  It’s all too raw, too open.  She hasn’t got enough resilience tonight to get over the smell of warm pie, bringing back the nightmares.  She’ll just lie here, wine in hand and book comfortably in reach, till the water cools, and then she’ll go to bed.  And she won’t think about those days, back home in their kitchen, when her mother would stone the cherries, and always let her steal one or two, pretending she didn’t see Kate’s small fingers; roll the pastry, and let Kate have the trimmings once the lid was put on.  She won’t remember the smell, and how good the hot pie tasted when it was ready at dinner time.  She won’t remember them all together, smiling round the table, her mother wiping smudges from a smaller Kate’s face after.  She won’t.

Castle hears the soft splash of water, the chime of a wine glass being set down on tile.  All of that is sounding rather interesting, when he hears a different sound.  If he’s any judge, that was a sob.  Muffled, as if Beckett’s trying to hide it from herself.  It comes again.  The small hurt noises scrape his heart, seeing in his mind the 19-year old Beckett whose life was split apart by some killer.  Maybe that was when she lost her dreams, he thinks poetically, and abruptly realises that that is precisely true.  He’s still sitting, trying to reform his conception of Beckett from the hard-ass cop who’s steel right through, to this woman covering something so painful she’s walled it off for years, when he registers that she is standing right in front of him.

“I told you to leave.  Get out.”  There’s no passion, no annoyance, no emotion in her words, just a flat statement of _this is the way it will be,_ as if she can’t care enough about him to put effort into it.  But under the soft exterior, the charming easy-going man, Castle is no complete pushover himself.  He’s been put on edge by her all day, since the dream, since the pie, since the cupcakes, and it’s mixed toxically with his  hurt that she’s crying alone, rather than letting him comfort her.  He sees, idiotically, that she’s barefoot and so much smaller than he’s used to, wrapped in some lightweight confection that under other circumstances he would have delighted in seeing. 

And so he goes for the other option.

“You need some company.  You’re upset.”


	3. But The Tigers Come At Last

“No.  I won’t play this game.  Go or stay, it makes no difference.  You can sit here on your own all night if you choose.”  She turns away, somehow smaller than she ever is in the precinct, all that power, personality and drive drained, and her body language tightly controlled beneath the silky piece of floating fabric. 

He’s abruptly angry.  She doesn’t _see_ him, doesn’t see anything beyond her own pain.  He brings her coffee, bear claws, gets her lunch, makes her smile – so he thought.  He’s her partner, and wants to be more, and yet she won’t let him in far enough for him to help her, she’d rather blow him off and deal with all this excruciating agony alone.    And now she’s walking away again, walled up in her own little world, because she won’t open up to anyone.  He grabs for her wrist, pulls her back to him, tugs her close.

“Beckett.  Let me help.”

“No.  Go away, Castle.  Let’s forget you ever came over.  Go back to your loft.  There’s nothing to see here.” 

It’s the cop’s mantra.  But he doesn’t let go, can’t let her go.  Instead, he does the stupidest thing that he’s ever failed to think about doing before he’s in there over his head: turns her face up to his and gently kisses the tears still drying on her cheeks.  “Plenty to see here, Beckett,” he says, and runs a thumb over her lips.  She flicks her tongue over it.  It’s electric.  And _oh my god_ she is kissing him, all furious intent, hands digging into his neck to hold him in place.  He dives in, possession and passion all mixed up with his confusion that she won’t let him help, pillaging her mouth and pulling her body close into him.  It’s so fast: hot hands and sharp nails, his shirt open, her mouth on his throat; his hands under the robe stroking her spine, the curve of her buttocks, one moving round to palm her breast, her stomach, the soft flesh below; she’s pulling him to her bedroom and when he falls above her on the bed they’re both naked and there are no more barriers, only heat and motion and release, over and over.

When he wakes she’s gone.

His clothes are piled neatly, precisely, by the bedroom door.  There’s a note tucked into the loop of his jeans.  _Don’t come to the precinct._   It’s not what he expected, the morning after the spectacular night before.

He goes home.  What else can he do, bereft of ideas.  His laptop’s lying on the desk where he left it and he writes blazingly for hours, chapter after chapter of Nikki Heat, laying out all the pain that he’s seen in Beckett into her.  And then he writes out his emotions too, giving Rook all the feelings that Castle himself hasn’t dared acknowledge until now.  When finally he stops, it’s dinner time, Alexis long come home and finishing her homework, Martha running through some script that will likely never get put on.  Just another end-of-day at Casa del Castle, except that he’s been told not to come to the precinct and the only thing he could do today which wouldn’t make things worse (how could they be worse?) was do what he’s told.  All the writing hasn’t helped, hasn’t cleared his mind or heart the way it always did before.

Dinner is comfortingly, reassuringly normal, and Castle begins to bounce back.  Alexis got A on her chemistry test (as if that was ever in doubt) and he is appropriately enthusiastic, suggesting that she can synthesise calorie-free desserts and unrippable fabrics, fuels that produce different coloured exhaust fumes depending on the speed the car is doing, all sorts of ephemera and whimsical thoughts.  Martha interjects sardonic reality every so often, to try to keep him grounded, but it’s hopeless. 

But after they are finished, Alexis upstairs and Martha gone out somewhere, Castle goes back to his study , ostensibly to write, in fact to ponder how he’s going to get back to the precinct without being maimed or shot.  And once there, how he’s going to uncover enough of the Beckett story to stop making mistakes when he’s dealing with her, how he’s going to avoid the sore spots, how he can show her that there’s more to him than the impulsive child, grabbing for the next shiny bauble, which is all he thinks she sees.

She has reason, to be fair.  Sleeping with his ex-wife had hardly demonstrated maturity, judgement or impulse control.  But he can grow up, he really can.  He hopes.  First things first, he needs to get back into the Twelfth.  So he dials Esposito, invites him and Ryan to a drink in his favourite bar, and prepares for a conversation in which he will not so much as think the phrase _slept with Beckett_.

* * *

 

Castle’s always liked the Old Haunt, ever since he used to write there.  Something about its old-fashioned walls, the photo-portraits of famous writers on the walls (it doesn’t hurt his ego to know that one of them is him), not to mention the rather good micro-brewery beer, tends to soothe his fretfulnesses.

“Hey Castle,” comes from Ryan, Esposito waving a laid back hi. “Missed you at the precinct today.”

“Well, you know, gotta satisfy my adoring readership every so often.”

Esposito makes a disgusted face.  “You mean your publisher rang and told you to get off your butt and start writing.”

“I’m wounded.  How can you say that?  Yes.”

“Didn’t miss much,” Ryan notes.  “No new bodies, no new evidence on old bodies, no fun, just crappy boring paperwork.  Even Beckett wasn’t sparking.”

Castle’s ears perk up.  But Ryan’s moving on to the possibilities of micro-brews and the discussion takes another turn.  Beers are acquired, while Esposito tells some moderately dirty story about one of the detectives in another precinct who was apparently caught in the act in their Captain’s office and tried to save their own blushes by suggesting that they were just trying to show the girl their gun.  The chewing-out by the Captain is apparently already passing into NYPD legend, and Castle’s frantically trying to take semi-intelligible notes on a handy beer mat so it can figure somewhere in his writing.  More beer arrives, and everyone is getting pleasantly buzzed.  Castle’s trying to figure out some way of extracting a bit more information from Ryan (whose tolerance for alcohol is amusingly low) without Esposito (whose tolerance is depressingly high) noticing and asking awkward questions.  As it turns out, he needn’t have worried.

“Beckett’s acting kinda weird today,” slurs Ryan gently.  “She acshally went home at the end of her shift.  Not seen that before.  Maybe she’s getting sick.  Hope I don’t get it.”

“No chance,” says Esposito derisively.  “if anyone’s likely to get it it’s Castle.  He’s the one she was leaning over.  Hey, maybe he gave it to her.  Whatcha given Beckett, Castle?”

Castle looks injured.  “I haven’t given Beckett anything,” he grumps.  “She wouldn’t even taste the pie I brought you all.  And I brought cream, too.  I’m not likely to have given her some bug.”

“Wasn’t me she was k-i-s-s-i-n-g,” says Esposito.  “She can’t’ve caught it from me.  Gotta be you, Castle.  Way to go, making your muse ill.  Not much story if your detective’s sick at home.”

“I wasn’t kissing Beckett,” says Castle, just a little wistfully.  “She’d shoot me.”  He’s manfully not thinking –much – about kissing her last night.  Or the rest.  “Are you sure she’s sick?  Beckett?  What dread virus would dare try to attack the iron constitution of Detective Beckett?”  Ryan and Esposito ignore his elegant prose, to his slight disappointment.

“She’s gotta be sick,” says Esposito.  “Wouldn’t go home on time else.  No chance.  Two Tylenol and bed and betcha she’ll be in tomorrow.  ‘nyway, ‘s closing time.  See ya tomorrow.”   And that's all he really wanted from the evening. Reassurance that he's expected tomorrow.

Esposito steers Ryan out the door.

Castle stays sitting in the booth, finishing his beer, wondering what to do.  Impulsivity says get over to Beckett’s, make sure she’s okay, take her a dozen different types of cure for any disease he can think of.  A rare tendril of common sense and self-preservation says _she will kill you._  For once he listens to common sense.  If she’s still sick tomorrow, he thinks, he can always reconsider.  For now, he goes home in a self-congratulatory haze, happy that he’s displayed new maturity.


	4. Voices Soft As Thunder

In her apartment, Beckett is dismally attempting to eat.  A day of paperwork and no distraction – no Castle – has left her with a low-grade headache and a generally unsettled feeling.  Add to that the slight pull of over-used muscles and she thinks that Advil and sleep are indicated.  She reads desultorily for a while, propped up on her pillows, then gratefully snuggles into her comforter and finds sleep.

In her dreams, she’s back at Stanford, majoring in pre-law with a minor in Russian.   It’s bright and sunny and everything’s going well.  It’s almost vacation. 

She moves restlessly in her sleep. 

She’s going home to New York, looking forward to seeing her family: they’ve already discussed where to go for dinner.  There’s a newish restaurant that she hasn’t been to, which sounds good.  She and her father are in the restaurant, waiting for her mom.  But she doesn’t come.  No message, but sometimes that happens when a case gets busy.  They’ll see her at home. 

Beckett twists and turns in her bed, tangled in the sheet and comforter. 

At home there isn’t her mom, there’s a detective, cold and precise. “I’m very sorry,” he begins, and she wakes, sweating and panicking, trying to clear the vision from her head.  She never can.

Beckett knows the only thing to do is get up for a while, let the memory of the dream fade as far as it can, and calm down.  She needs to have it all covered over when she goes on duty.  It’s not something she’s comfortable discussing: only Lanie knows how obsessed she is with the case, but not even Lanie knows about the dreams.  She knows what’s triggered this one: cherry pie, and stress.  It was stupid to sleep with Castle, but that’s done now: she can’t unring that bell.  She’s good at emotional self-sabotage, and that was a pretty fine example.  At least she’s protected.

She supposes that she’ll have to put up with him, though at least he had the sense not to turn up yesterday.  She can do it if she has to, it’s only another memory to suppress, and she has plenty of practice at doing that.  She doesn’t think about the number of memories she’s already ignoring, nor that the dreams are more frequent than in years.  She can create any depth of shell over her wounds, though the thicker her shell, the less likely it is that she’ll ever open up enough to anyone to heal the pain.  Here in the half-light of the street lamps, curtains open but no interior light on, she doesn’t care.   She won’t inflict her pain on anyone else, doesn’t need support for that.  And so, she knows, it would be a half-hearted relationship, one foot always out the door, letting her head rule.  No wild passion, emotional upset, no highs.  And no lows.  No new pain. 

It’s 2 a.m. when she returns to bed, stonily calm, forcing herself to relaxation, to sleep, to have the capacity simply to do her job in the morning and be Detective Beckett.  With luck, there will be no more dreams tonight, and for now tomorrow night need not be imagined.

The new body drops next  day.  Pop star, singer, usual story, in and out of rehab, drugs, alcohol.  No matter how wasted the life, the murderer had no right to take it.  No help but to call Castle and let him follow her around, not really listening to how it’s his daughter’s favourite group and blah blah blah.  She’s focused on the case, not on the annoying whine in her ear.  She may have to do this because her Captain ordered her to, but she doesn’t have to enjoy it.  The still small voice in her head that says _you enjoyed having him around until this week_ joins its fellow stray, unhelpful thoughts in the lockbox in her brain.

* * *

 

Castle’s delighted with this murder – sex, drugs, rock-and-roll, it’s _perfect:_ at least till Alexis turns up in the precinct when she should be in school, and starts getting involved.  It’s a rare case of him having to lay down the parental law.  Even Beckett seems to be impressed, telling him it’s kinda refreshing  to see him as a father rather than a twelve year old.  The implied _an immature idiot_ can safely be ignored.   At least until he gives into the temptation to say “Does it make you want me?”, when the Beckett glare reappears. 

Well.  More than a year of smart remarks and immaturity hasn’t achieved much, though he’s been sure since around the second week she’s more into him than she admits, so maybe he should be a little more grown up.  Not much, though, that would spoil his charm.  But if just a little would get her to realise that he wants her to let him in, that couldn’t be a bad thing, right?

He bounces home at the end of the day, enthusiastically planning how to be a little more adult.  It’s more difficult than he expects.  Obviously casually falling into bed with ambitious ex-wife actresses is out, but can he really be expected not to play laser tag, or watch silly movies?  And of course he has to flirt and tease.  Beckett’d be upset if he didn’t.

His thoughts turn more serious.  It’s all very well being a playboy, but eventually you have to put your toys away.  Or get new ones, more appropriate ones.  Or get things that aren’t toys at all. 

He’s a bit worried about Beckett.  She’d been as sharp as ever, mainly at his expense, but there’d been a …brittleness… behind it.  She didn’t seem to be having as much fun as usual.  Maybe sleeping with her hadn’t been such a good idea.  But it wasn’t his fault.  _She’d_ come on to _him_.  And the sex had been _amazing_.  Rough, he still has some scratches, but absolutely definitely _amazing._  They should do that more often.  Lots more often.  All the time.  Oh.  Maybe that doesn’t fit this new maturity.  Maybe he should try - a date.  That would be smoother.  Somewhere tasteful.  Elegant.  Like Beckett.  He opens his list of contacts, selects, and books a table for a couple of evenings ahead.

* * *

 

Beckett hasn’t left the precinct.  She’s running through the evidence, staring at her murder board, grasping for connections.  Crazed stalker that they arrested but couldn’t hold pointed them to the band’s unwashed guitarist, who’d been seriously slimy, but so far he’s got an alibi. Drunk, doped sister isn’t a viable suspect.  Her “confession” was boosted by whatever she was on, but just telling someone to drop dead doesn’t make you a murderer.  If it did New York would be empty.  Apparently pop star wasn’t back on drugs. Dealer sold her a .38, but she can’t hold him either.  Best clue they’ve got is a lipstick brand.  It’s pathetic.

There’s no room in her head for anything else: working this hard leaves her exhausted and empty.  She doesn’t consciously, ever, let herself know that this is a deliberate tactic to be so tired she’ll sleep without the dreams of her mother dying.  She hasn’t eaten, but there’s always more coffee: it doesn’t stop her sleeping.  Hasn’t, since her mother was murdered and she became a cop.

Eventually she goes home, late enough that the streets are empty and there’s no chance of meeting anyone in the elevator.  Just the way she likes it.

The take-out is growing some bacterial sub-culture in a livid blue.  She drops it in the trash, fails to find anything else edible, goes to bed.  She doesn’t think she’ll dream tonight, too tired.

She’s back two nights ago, flat on her back with Castle beside her.  He slides a hand over her jaw, down across her clavicle, pausing on the curve of her breast to play teasingly with her nipple.  She writhes demandingly, and he obligingly traces further, past her ribs, her navel, edging the lace of her panties.  She pulls him hard into her and he matches her mood, stroking more roughly, taking her mouth aggressively, hard fingers sliding over her underwear and finding her wet, circling and pressing till she moans and arches, bites her fingers into his shoulders and begs him for more.  When he thrusts into her it’s hot and deep and everything she needs to break apart.  He’s barely behind.

When she wakes her sheets are tangled and the comforter on the floor.  She’s still over-heated from the vividness of the memory.  In the cold grey morning light of her bedroom, she doesn’t think that this dream is much of an improvement on any other.  Just another way for sleep to torture her with all the things she can’t have.  She gratefully escapes into work, where her thoughts can be focused on a single goal.


	5. When Men Were Kind

In the morning, in line with this new adult-version Castle, he buys coffee and bear claws like usual, but instead of a smart, suggestive quip he just puts them down neatly and says _Hey._  Beckett looks up at him, mouthing a soft, unthinking _thanks._   She isn’t paying particular attention, and as he observes her he thinks that despite the careful make-up  the shadows under her eyes are deeper, the frown of concentration a little tighter.   He’s good at interpreting make-up, courtesy of a long line of theatre back-stages and not a few women, and this make-up says to him that Beckett’s concealing a disturbed night.  He hopes she wasn’t crying again.

They haul the ex-manager in early on.  He’s sleazy and he’s defensive and all he’s interested in is the money but he calls Beckett’s bluff and she can’t hold him.  His phone records point them back to the smelly guitarist.  Beckett rips hell out of that alibi and drags the whole disgusting story out of him.  Still not enough to make an arrest.  But smelly guitarist gives them a clue on Hayley Blue’s phone – which they don’t have.

By late morning Beckett’s barely uttered ten words that weren’t to do with the case.  Castle is getting more and more nervous that today is _not_ going to be a good day to ask her on a date.  But he called in a favour or two to get a table at Jean-Georges, and he’d rather not have wasted the effort.   Besides, he’s never met anyone who’d turn down dinner at Jean-Georges.  He dreams happily about the duck  with almonds, until Beckett looks up and snaps “Stop smacking your lips, Castle.  This is not a diner.”

“Aw, come on.  It’s nearly lunchtime.  Aren’t you…hungry?”  He wiggles an eyebrow salaciously.  Beckett’s unimpressed.

“I’d rather starve. ”  Ouch.  That lacked any element of humour.   What’s _with_ Beckett this week?  No fun at all.  Clearly it’s his duty as a partner to cheer her up.  Maturity goes for a walk. He folds a convenient piece of paper into a little origami swan and floats it across the desk to under Beckett’s nose.  She looks furiously at him and bats it away. 

“Get it _off_ , Castle.  NYPD forms are not for making into stupid little toys.  Grow up.”  He looks pathetically at her, making big blue eyes.  She isn’t moved.  He goes back to playing with his phone, since clearly delicate paper constructions aren’t appreciated like they should be.

Lunchtime rolls around.  Beckett’s still lost in some little world where the only thing she sees is the case.  Castle hasn’t been so bored at the precinct since… well, since ever.  It dimly occurs to him that maybe being a cop, like he sometimes pretends, wouldn’t actually be any fun without the team at the Twelfth.  Maybe he’d better not take it up as a career.  Stick to writing.  It’s better paid and the perks are certainly a lot prettier.  Mmm.  Yes.  For example, he wouldn’t be _here_ if he wasn’t a writer.  He flicks a glance at Beckett’s mouth, and that’s so sexy, even with her lips pinched together in annoyance, he slides a much slower, appreciative, look all the way up and down from as low as he can see to the top of her head.

“Stop staring, Castle.  It’s creepy.” But there’s no force or irritation behind the words.  It’s almost as if she hasn’t really registered his look.  He’s offended.  No woman ignores him when he looks like that at them.  _Beckett_ doesn’t ignore him when he looks like this at her.  Granted, she usually looks like she’s going to inflict severe physical violence, but he would prefer that to this indifference.

Castle tries another tack.  “It’s lunchtime, Beckett.  C’mon.  Let’s go get some food.”  Beckett shakes her head.  “Beckett,” he whines.  “I’m hungry.  Don’t you want something?”

“No.”

“You have to eat.  How are you going to chase down criminals if you haven’t eaten?  You’ll faint and I’ll have to carry you.”  That raises a mild glare.  He carries on.  “Just think, Beckett, you’ll be clasped in my strong arms.  How romantic.”

“In your dreams, Castle.”

“And in yours, Detective.”  He smiles evilly.  But Beckett doesn’t have a snarky comeback.  There’s a flash of expression that he can’t quite catch across her face.  That’s interesting.  What has Beckett been dreaming of? He’s not sure that the quick change was anything pleasant.

He takes her wrist and tugs her up.  “You have to eat.  Come on.”  Ryan and Esposito wade in with lunch orders.  “You have to come.  I can’t carry it all myself.”

Beckett gives up and stands.  Castle gets them into the elevator and, once they’re outside,  leads off in the direction of a good lunch shop.  “So, Beckett,” he says interestedly.  “What’s with you today?  You haven’t threatened to kill me once.  Are you sick?”

“I don’t have time to feed your ego.  I have a murder to solve, or didn’t you notice?”

“You’re not letting me help.  You need my theories,” he sulks.  “I can’t tell the story if you won’t talk to me about the case.”  And then he has a brilliant idea.

“Tell you what, Beckett.  I promise not to be a pest for the rest of the day if you’ll come for dinner when the case is done.  How about it?”

Beckett’s not really thinking about what he’s saying.  But peace for the afternoon sounds good, and dinner at the loft is generally enjoyable, not to mention safe, what with Alexis and Martha.  “Yes,” she says, distractedly.

Castle nearly whoops.  “Fine,” he grins. “I’ll pick you up at eight the evening of the day we close the case.  You’ll need to wear something pretty, we’ll go to Jean-Georges.”

“ _No!_ ”

What?  “But Beckett, you promised.  You can’t break your promises.”  He’s looking little-boy plaintive.  _Please, Beckett, come play with me?  I promise I’ll play nice._

“I thought you meant the loft.  With Alexis and Martha.  I’m not going out to Jean-Georges with you.  I’m a cop, not some airhead socialite.” _Unlike you_ is clearly implied.

“That’s nasty, Beckett.  I’m sure you’ll stand comparison with any airhead socialite” – there’s a little bite behind his words – “if you clean up nice.  Anyway, you promised.  So I’ll pick you up at eight whichever day it is, in whatever you wear, jeans or dress or an itsy-bitsy bikini.  It’ll be fun.  You can talk to me about anything you like and I promise I won’t embarrass you once.”

Beckett marches off, indignation evident in every stiff line of her shoulders.  She’s left him to carry all the lunch, and as he fumbles with bags and bottles and wallet, he realises that he’s going to resemble a hobo more closely than a charming writer as he walks back to the precinct.  Not a good look.  But – he whoops internally again – Beckett’s coming out to dinner.  A date.  A real date.  Even if she’s not exactly…enthusiastic.  He deposits the lunch bags and cheerfully exits, wondering what Beckett might wear.  The red dress is a bit too much, even if the downward view was to die for.  The pink thing at the book reading was fabulously short – _oh_ her legs – but not really her.  Oh _yes_.  The blue dress.  Ooohh.  Please wear the blue dress again, Beckett.  There’s that very tuggable zip at the front and the remarkable absence of fabric in back.  Oh please wear it.

He’s so pleased with himself he didn’t notice that Beckett hadn’t ordered her own lunch.

* * *

 

Beckett is not happy at all about the way the day is turning out.  She’s tired from her broken sleep and shaky with low blood sugar, she knows she ought to eat but she just can’t face it, the case is not wholly solved yet, even though they’ve broken Mrs Bush’s alibi and found a bullet hole in her studio (well, Castle did.  And that’s irritating too) and now through inattention she’s managed to be on the wrong end of a dinner invitation (she won’t even _think_ the word _date_ ) to one of the best restaurants in the city.  With Castle.  Who she had angry, rough sex with three nights ago, just to keep the nightmares away.  And worst of all, it worked to keep those nightmares away but now she’s added a different dream that makes her scared to sleep.  She can’t get into a relationship, wounded as she is: she’s got a different goal.  If she can’t find her mother’s killer, how can she really be a detective, no matter what her solve rate is at the Twelfth?  And if she isn’t a detective, she’s nothing.

The peace of the afternoon, uninterrupted, just what she told herself she wanted, brings no insight into the pop star’s murder that would really nail Mrs Bush, but at least they have quite enough to hold her.  Ryan and Esposito haven’t found any final breakthrough, and she can’t find a focus in the murder board to start a new line of enquiry. 

But the next morning Castle turns up with a new theory: that the lyrics of the last song point to the killer.  And it’s right.  It’s horrible.  Not Mrs Bush, but Mr Bush.  Abused her.  Violated her.  It’s sickening.

She’s staring blindly at her screen when her phone beeps and a text comes up: _I‘ll be collecting you in an hour._  Shit.  She’s nothing suitable to wear but the blue dress she wore to the Nikki Heat party; no time to borrow anything from Lanie.  She’s home in twenty minutes, rushing through the shower, redoing the careful make-up that’s still just about covering the dark under her eyes, stepping into the dress and heels.  She doesn’t want to go, but if she has to she will _not_ be the focus of inquisitive eyes wondering why she isn’t appropriately dressed.  She doesn’t need the malicious attention of the gossip freaks and columnists, though chances are she’ll get it anyway.

She’s done just in time, sitting on her couch perfectly, frozenly ready, mind on the nasty result of the case, mental armour buckled.  The door sounds exactly on eight.


	6. No Wine Untasted

When Beckett opens the door Castle’s mind goes momentarily blank.  He can’t get past _the_ _dress ohmygod she’s really wearing that dress_ until there’s an ominous cough. 

“You look amazing.”  Beckett mutters something that might have been _thank you_ if he really listened hard, but it’s clear that the compliment means little.  She’s brittle, and the re-applied make-up is good, but it’s not that good.  He can see tiredness puddling in her eyes.

She reaches for a wrap and covers all that interesting view.

“I’ve got a car downstairs.  Shall we?”  He holds out an arm invitingly, more in hope than expectation.  His pessimism is not disappointed.  Beckett ignores it.  But while he’s giving her pleading looks to take his arm, he notices that she’s trembling very slightly.  That’s not normal.

“Beckett, you okay?”

“Yes.”  Well.  That doesn’t leave room for argument.  But he watches her more closely as they go to the elevator, and out to the street, and her walk isn’t as sure, as emphatic, as usual.  He stands fractionally closer to her, in case the impossible happens and she trips.  Wouldn’t want her to fall – well, anywhere but into his arms.  Or bed.  He squishes that thought.  It didn’t exactly end well a few days ago.  She’s hardly indicated that she wants to do it again.  Or even that she remembers it.  Which is a little insulting, when he thinks about it.  He _knows_ she had a very good time.  He made sure of it.  Anyway.  This is a civilised date.

He ushers her into the car, party manners on display, and when she’s safely in and clicking her seatbelt shut he slides in.  He wants to slide over and throw a casual arm across the back, trail his fingers teasingly over her shoulder, just a little lower than is wholly appropriate.  But.  This is supposed to prove he’s mature and smooth, not some teenager looking to make out in the back of a car.  Even if he really, really wants to.  He locks his own seatbelt and tells the driver to go.

The ride is smooth and quiet and much to Beckett’s astonishment and relief Castle appears to be capable of conversation that doesn’t involve flirting and innuendo.  In fact, he’s almost being adult.  It’s just as well.  In a confined space, the only light from the hazy sodium streetlights, and in quiet, the memories in her skin of how he tasted, touched, felt are all prickling at the surface.  She can’t block them, but maybe she can hide them. 

She shifts a little.  Maybe she’s going about this the wrong way.  Maybe the solution is a relationship with Castle.  Partners-with-benefits.  He’s made his interest in getting her into bed obvious from the very first day, and he’s never indicated that he’s interested in anything more.  He’s not going to want anything serious – he’s never serious about anything except his family and he’s gone through a whole string of casual relationships – and he’s good in bed.  Really, really good in bed.  She won’t have to get involved emotionally, and the sex will keep the nightmares away.  That sounds like a workable plan.  Both of them will enjoy it – she’s certain of that – and no-one will get hurt.  When they’ve had enough, it’ll die a natural death.  No harm, no foul.  She relaxes mentally, and with the decision comes back a measure of reality and she realises that she’s hungry.  What happened to lunch?  Oh.  She forgot.   She has to get a grip on that.  She’d fallen down the spiral of not eating once before, and nearly got killed because she couldn’t concentrate at a stakeout.  She mustn’t do that again.

“You’re thinking too loud, Beckett.” Castle’s voice intrudes into her head.  “Stop thinking difficult thoughts and think about dinner instead.   The food’s fabulous.  I even got us a window table so you can look out at Central Park.”  He just stops himself saying _in the unlikely event you get bored of looking at me_.  Maturity.  Yes.  After seeing her small and unhappy, he’s looking for a better relationship than just a quick one-night-stand.  He’s not sure yet what he feels, but he thinks he’s already deeper in than he’s ever been before.  And he married two of those.

The car pulls over and Beckett walks in ahead of Castle with a confident, cat-walk step.  Decision made, she’s suddenly ready for a good meal, a decent discussion where they can spark ideas off each other, and then see where the evening takes her.  And the place is genuinely lovely.  Elegant, clean white lines, window table at the end of a long couch, even though it’s dark the sparkle of the lights outside is pretty, attentive waiter.  The menu does look delicious. 

Castle’s at his smoothest, wine chosen to match the meal, suggestions for what she might like, recommendations (of course) from previous experience.  He’s even sitting a discreet distance away, rather than (as she had expected) too close.  He hadn’t tried to crowd her in the town car, either, she remembers.  Hmm.  Well.   Let’s enjoy the meal and think about that later.  He hadn’t exactly been slow to respond when she’d licked his thumb that night, so she’s fairly sure it won’t take much to encourage him.  But not right now.  The food deserves her full attention.  She hums happily as the flavours fill her palate, savouring each individual taste.  Castle’s watching her with gentle amusement, though it’s clear that he’s equally happy with his choices.  When she begins to talk, it’s her normal snap and sparkle, and soon they’re engaged in an active exchange of ideas and theories, stories and evidence that knocks the stories down, smart thinking and smarter comments.  The time flies past.  The attentive waiter offers dessert, and Beckett is immediately attracted by the chocolate tasting platter. 

Castle is more relieved than he wants to admit that Beckett’s back to normal.  The evening had been looking like one of his less good (he never has _bad_ ) ideas when he’d picked her up, but she’d obviously pulled herself together in the car.  Following her into the restaurant had been a serious exercise in self-control, as the confident Beckett strut had also developed an enticing Beckett sashay.  He hasn’t seen that since the very first case.  Still, maturity, Castle.  It’s harder than he expects, as Beckett’s eating her dessert with intense attention to removing every scrap of chocolate off her spoon.  He really, really wants to be that spoon.  The way she’s licking it is giving him a serious oral fixation, and he doesn’t think it’s even conscious.  Just as well, really.  If she was doing that with intent he’d have disgraced himself by pulling her across the table into his lap and kissing her in the restaurant.  _What are you doing to me, Beckett?_   _And can I do it to you?  With chocolate?_   His dress pants are becoming uncomfortably tight.

Beckett scrapes the last traces of chocolate off the plate and spoon and looks wistfully at the lack of any more.  She’s been so absorbed in the excellence of the dessert that she hasn’t said a word for the last five minutes, and she looks up to apologise for her silence.  When she meets Castle’s eyes they’re dark and hungry.  He drops his eyes to her mouth, where she’s licking her lips for any last traces.  It wasn’t deliberate, but if what she wants is some no-strings-attached sex, it’s certainly had the desired effect.  He’s not cool now.  Time to leave, she thinks.  She bites her lower lip, and watches his pupils dilate.

“Are you finished, Beckett, or do you want coffee?”

“I’m done.” She considers issuing an invitation to come back to hers now, but thinks that it might be more…interesting…to do so when they’re in the car.  She smiles, cat-like.  _Come be my mouse, Castle._

Castle can’t decide if he should be confused or just plain terrified.  Aroused goes without saying.  Beckett slowly tonguing chocolate off her mouth would have been good for months of fantasies, but add that feline smile and he has the feeling that he’s suddenly the prey, not the predator.  He’s unsure what to do.  This is such a total reversal of the last two days that he’s struggling to believe it’s really happening.  But if it is, he’s certainly not stupid enough to spoil it.  If suddenly-sexy Beckett’s in the mood to play, he’s not going to leave her alone in the playground.  He gets the check, calls for the car to come round, and holds her wrap.  As she shrugs into it, he slides a tantalising hand down, smoothing it over the gap in the fabric in the back of her dress, and feels her slight start.  Ah.  Not wholly in control, then.  The evening is becoming deeply, deeply interesting.

“Enjoy that, Beckett?” he asks, once they’re in the car.

“Mmmm.  Delicious.  Thank you.” Her voice is a little low, a little breathy.  “In return, can I offer you coffee?”  He turns sharply to her, eyes wide.

“Why, Beckett,” he recovers smoothly, “are you inviting me up for coffee on a first date?”  He slides a few inches across the seat and puts  his arm along the back, fingers provokingly close to the nape of her neck, the slim line of her shoulder beyond, under the soft wrap.

“Don’t you do coffee on a first date?  Oh Castle, how prim.  Wouldn’t want to offend your morals, though.  Don’t worry, I’ll respect them.  You don’t have to accept.”  She’s laughing at him.  He doesn’t like it.  He’ll show her not to laugh at him.  He moves his fingers to trail over the wisps of hair at the back of her neck, slide down to the edge of the wrap, linger there, drawing gentle circles on her skin.  He hears her draw in a breath.  Ah yes.  That’s more like it.

“Oh, I do coffee.  Look to your own morals, Beckett.  What do _you_ do on a first date.”  He lets his fingers sink another inch or so over her smooth shoulder, down toward her collarbone.  She shifts a fraction against his hand.  He’s not blind to the signals.  _Oh Beckett, I hope you know what you’re saying here._   He’d hate it if he can’t have at least a kiss after all this encouragement.  He boldly slips closer, pressing against her, bringing his free hand round to stroke her cheek, her jaw line, turn her head towards him.  Her eyes are deep hot green, challenging him to the next step.  Her lips are slightly parted, and he rubs his thumb across them, lightly pushing along the open seam.  Her tongue flicks against the pad of his thumb, and it’s all he can do not to pull her in and kiss every smart remark out her mouth.  But he recognises that they’re getting close to Beckett’s apartment, and he doesn’t want to have to stop kissing her once he starts.   So he takes his hand from her face and sets it over her knee, stroking just under the hem of her dress, matching the rhythm of his fingers dropping past her collarbone.  Until she tells him to stop, he’s going to show her that he’s not just there to be toyed with and teased.  He’s perfectly able to toy and tease on his own account. _Just wait, Beckett.  You’re not the only one who can heat things up._   He extends his fingers a little, stretching up and inward, feeling her quad tense and the hitch in her breath.  Oh yes, Beckett.  Just like that.  But then her hand is sliding over his leg and suddenly she’s the aggressor and it’s his breath catching and him wondering just how far she’ll go in the back of a car.

The answer turns out to be a disappointing no further, mainly (he hopes) because the car stops.  He tells the driver not to wait, he’ll get a cab later.  Beckett raises a quizzical eyebrow, and he hopes that it’s at the thought of him leaving rather than because he sounds like he’s expecting to stay a while longer than she was planning for.  He tries to put an arm round her in the elevator, draw her in, but she’s not playing.  The amused look on her face suggests that she’s perfectly aware of his frustration.  He wants her to stop teasing.  But he’s not prepared to stop her in the most obvious and pleasurable way until they’re behind her door.  He hasn’t been caught making out in an elevator for some time and it’s not in his game plan to start now.  Especially as he isn’t sure he’d remember to stop, given a willing Beckett.  Fortunately that doesn’t currently seem to be in doubt.

His resolve is even more severely tested when she bends slightly to unlock her door.  There’s so much leg on display it ought to be illegal and all he can think of is running his hand up from stiletto heel to hip.

“Are you coming, Castle?” Not a question that’s designed to help him calm down, get some game back.  “Door’s open.”  She’s looking at him from inside as if he’s some idiot who needs to be told how to tie his own shoes.  He scuttles after her, shuts the door.  She’s already out of reach, halfway to the kitchen, slithering the wrap off her shoulders and giving him a perfect view of the naked small of her back, the curve of her ass below, and those insanely long legs.  He remembers them curling round his waist.  He’s remembered that a lot, since dessert.  He follows her into the kitchen to find her manoeuvring with kettle and coffeepot.

“Really coffee, Beckett?  I thought you were expecting to examine my morals.”  His voice has dropped to a velvety rumble, deep and soft.  It belongs in a darkened bedroom, hints at desire and syrupy heat.  It’s a voice he uses when he wants attention of a rather more intimate kind.  It rarely fails.  From the sudden shift in Beckett’s posture it isn’t going to fail now.

“I’m certain your…morals…are adequate to the evening.”  Beckett’s developed a voice that he only ever wants to hear used on him.  It’s ripped silk, husky and breathy and somehow feline, and it goes straight from his ears due south.  He takes two fast steps, catches her shoulders and swings her round into him.

“What kept you, Castle?”                                                

“Oh, Beckett, don’t you know that good things only come to those who _wait_?”

Beckett smiles, slowly, invitingly.  “Well,” she smirks, “I wouldn’t want to miss out on good things.  So I guess I’ll have to wait.”  But then she raises one small hand to the front zipper of her dress, and opens it an inch.  Castle nearly chokes.  She turns back to the coffeepot, but she’s not getting away with that.  He traces his fingers over the cut-out in her dress, and slips down under the fabric to the dimple at the base of her spine.  She shivers and presses back against his hand.  When she turns round the zip is open far enough that he can see delicate navy lace against the curve of her breast.  He curves a large hand round her waist and pulls her against him, showing her exactly what she’s done to him, bends and takes her mouth, other hand smoothing over the arch of her spine and coming to rest tangled in her hair, holding her to him, exploring with his tongue till she moans into him. 

She pulls away, nipping at his lip, and says languidly, “I thought you wanted to _wait_ , Castle?”  He growls and pulls her back to his mouth, kissing her fiercely, walking her back against the counter where he can press into her, rocking his hips into her till she gasps and brings a leg up around him, the short skirt of her dress sliding up over her thigh.  His fingers follow it, pushing it higher till it’s no barrier to stroking over the lace beneath, eliciting mewls and gasps as he leaves her mouth and trails over her neck to behind her ear.  She’s rolling against him, unbuttoning his shirt and he can’t think as she scrapes sharp nail tips over his chest.  She’s so _good_ at this.

“Bedroom, Castle.” Oh yes.  Bedroom.  Now.  He can’t stop kissing, nipping, licking over the small bites.  Beckett’s towing him to her room and he can’t believe that it’s even better than the previous time.  He can’t do anything but follow her lead.  He pulls the zip down all the way and drops hot kisses along the skin it reveals, raising his head only to catch the skirt hem in both hands and yank it over her head, leaving her standing in heels and navy lace with a slow smile that just screams _come and get me if you dare_.  And _oh_ he dares.  He swings her up and on to the bed, shrugs his shirt off and removes his pants, comes to lean over her and kiss down her throat, across her breasts, undoing her bra, never waiting too long in any one place, till she’s whimpering and squirming and making sexy little noises that morph into _more Castle, please Castle_ , then she brings her hand down and cups him  and strokes till he groans _stop Beckett_ and pins her wrists above her head to prevent her, kisses her roughly and slides his hand over her wet panties till she’s as undone as she’s just made him.

This is what Beckett wants, what she knows she needs.  Castle’s just as good as she’d remembered and it’s glorious.  The way he’s touching her, kissing her, _oh yes just like that_ , and when he unhurriedly begins to glide her panties down her legs, smoothing his warm hands over them, easing off her heels, she stops thinking about anything but the sensations and what he might do next.  He’s shucked his boxers, and she’s so very ready to feel him slide into the cradle of her hips, fill her so deep the nightmares are gone.  But he’s still playing with her, fingers circling, so near and yet so far from what she wants him to do, dipping lightly just inside.  She pushes against them, demanding more, but he’s relentless in his pursuit of her pleasure, watching every reaction, learning what works for her.  She gasps out a plea for him just to be inside her now, she’s so close, _fuck me Castle_. 

“Don’t you want to _wait_ any more, Beckett?  Is this enough good things for you?”

She gathers enough game to reply, “What, Castle, won’t you have the stamina for another round?”  His eyes go hot and immediately he’s thrusting into her, heavy and filling and exactly what she needs right now.  He dances his fingers over her between them and it’s all too good, too much and she arches and bites her nails into his back and comes.  He’s only an instant behind, collapsing on to her spent.


	7. Made and Used

Beckett feels Castle roll off to one side and stretches out, a satisfied smile breaking through.  Partners-with-benefits could definitely prove…advantageous.  She reaches out, eyes still closed, and runs a lazy caress over what is probably his chest.  Mmmm.  Maybe she should worry about her own stamina.  She’s not sure she can survive another bout like that without some rest.  She snuggles back into that nice warm chest and drapes Castle’s arm around her.  He slips the other under her neck and spoons into her. Perfect.  She’s not often cuddlesome, but somehow it just seems right.

“Stay with me, Castle?” she mumbles, sleepily.

“Only if you stay too.”

“Okay.”  She’s asleep in moments, cradled securely against him, warm and safe.  She doesn’t dream.

Castle lies awake.  Cuddling Kate Beckett after amazing sex has been one of the major fantasies of his life to date, and she’s said she’ll stay so he’s fairly confident that there won’t be a repeat of the other morning.  There are lots of other interesting things that can be explored when she wakes up.  But.  He’s not one to look a gift Kate in the mouth, but…that was a rather dramatic reversal of course.  He’d love to think that it’s all his wit, charm and general adorability finally making an impact, but even his ego can’t quite believe that.  He pushes the niggle away in favour of settling Kate most comfortably against him, and falls asleep to dream of all the most enjoyable ways he might persuade her of his good intentions.

* * *

 

This time, when he wakes, she’s still there, wrapped in his arms.  The emotional shock that punches through him at how well she fits, how perfectly aligned they are, leaves him breathless.  He’s content to lie there holding her, hoping to get used to a different, softer Kate.  He wants to wake like this every morning.  He contemplates waking her with gentle touches, careful strokes and light kisses, all the delicate ways he knows to show that it’s not just about spectacular, athletic sex, not just a good way to end an evening, but a way to draw her in emotionally, be a part of her life that she hasn’t yet opened to anyone.  He wants to know everything about her, not to flesh out Nikki Heat (none of this will _ever_ go into Nikki Heat), not to ground some future book, but to _know_ her, what makes her happy, sad, what drives this woman: the hard-ass cop who keeps her team in line with nothing but a quirked eyebrow and a fast retort, the wounded waif who cries alone at night but never lets it show by day, the sexy adult who’s given him the best night he can ever remember.

He gently removes his arm from under her and stifles a squeak as the blood runs back to his fingers.  He thinks he’ll make her coffee, maybe breakfast?  That would be a nice thing to do, show her that he appreciates her.  Pancakes?  Mmmm, yes.  Edible appreciation.  Another form of edible appreciation occurs to him, but he thinks she ought to be awake for that.  Later.  Oh yes.  Not too much later.  Not much later at all.  He reluctantly detaches himself from the tangled sheet and the delightfully tangled Kate, and pads to the kitchen to investigate the cupboards and fridge.  And if he just so happens to find out more about the home life of his own dear Kate (he loves semi-relevant quotations) on the way, well, that’s just a happy side-benefit.

Locating coffee isn’t a problem.  There’s lots of that, strong dark Sumatran, Brazilian, a few flavoured varieties.  Unsurprisingly, there’s no decaff.  There are plenty creamers, and he rinses out the coffeepot that they never got to before other activities intervened.  So far so good.  He’s feeling happily domestic, just like in his own kitchen.  He pauses to indulge a daydream of waking up with Kate in his bed, in his loft.  Though he’d make sure Martha was missing.  She’s a bit too acerbic for his taste, now when it’s all so new.  He doesn’t need her too-knowing comments and unsubtle suggestions.

Coffee in progress, Castle opens the fridge.  At least, he thought it was a fridge.  It looks like a fridge, hums like a fridge, emits cold air like a fridge.  However it’s clearly not a fridge, because it has nothing in it but a trace of primeval slime mould in a nasty shade of blue.  That’s not how fridges work in Castle’s kitchen.  They have all the necessary ingredients to rustle up pancakes or waffles or eggs and bacon or whatever Kate might want.  He’s unreasonably disappointed.  He’d wanted to cook for her, and now he can’t.  He doesn’t even know where the nearest store is.

He looks again at the empty fridge.  Then he remembers the slight tremor in Kate’s walk at the start of the evening.  He wrinkles his forehead.  Part of Alexis’s curriculum had involved healthy eating, and he’d paid considerable attention to the section on eating disorders.  He doesn’t want Alexis caught up in anything like that.  He hopes that the empty fridge is just Beckett not taking proper care of herself, rather than anything else.  But then he remembers that normally she eats, as long as it’s there in front of her.  He thinks about that.  Maybe his best tack is food: bear claws in the morning, ensuring lunch happens, feeding her in the evening as often as she’ll let him.  If there aren’t ingredients, though, he can’t do anything now.  He wanders back to the bedroom, leaving the coffee for when she’s awake, and slips back under the sheet to place a mildly possessive arm over her. 

She’s still asleep, which isn’t what he expected.  He wonders if she hasn’t been sleeping, as well as not eating.  If he can help her do both…if she’ll let him help her do both…maybe she’ll let him in.  He’s still nervous, despite her _asking_ him to stay, that when she wakes she’ll tell him it’s all been a horrible mistake and make him go home and never, ever, let him see her again outside the precinct.   That thought hurts, and he unconsciously tightens into her.  There’s a sleep-soaked murmur of mild protest and he slacks off enough that she’s got room to breathe.  Suffocating Kate is not likely to be the way to her heart.  Pause.  Rewind.  _The way to her heart?_    That came up a little early.  Usually he’s at least waited a few weeks into a relationship, see if it’s got any potential, before starting to think like that.  Of course, he and Beckett have been in a strange sort of relationship since the day she hauled him out his own book party for questioning.  It’s largely been defined by how far he can push before she threatens to shoot him, but every so often it’s been defined by the missed opportunities to kiss her.  Like in the precinct those few days ago.  He’s distracted from thinking by a soft wriggle against him.  Mmmm.  Kate waking up slowly feels so _good_.  He props himself up on one elbow and looks down at her face, drowsy and smudged with the remains of her smoky eyeliner.  She looks cute and younger and just so very kissable that he doesn’t even try to resist the urge to lean down and taste her lips again, and when she opens to him and slides her tongue in his mouth he forgets about coffee, breakfast, everything except her in his arms.  All too soon for his increasing libido she pulls away and sits up, unashamedly naked.  He hmms unhappily.

“Come back, Beckett.”

“Some of us need to get to work, Castle.”  She flicks a glance at the clock and gasps.  “Why didn’t you wake me?  It’s after eight.  I need to be in the precinct.” She whips out of bed (the view is _amazing_ but he doesn’t think saying so will change anything right now) and is into the shower almost before he can blink.  He’d had plans for the shower, in particular the wall of the shower, but he doesn’t think that’s likely to happen this morning.  He pulls on his boxers and shirt and winces slightly as the heavy cotton hits his shoulder blades.  Beckett had been…enthusiastic…when encouraging him to get in closer.  He goes back out to the kitchen and pours coffee, brings a mug through and sets it on the bedside cabinet.  When Beckett exits the shower wearing the sort of underwear he wants to see spread across his bed that night (and _how_ does she expect him to get through the day _knowing_ what she’s got on without dragging her into the nearest closet and ripping it off) she spots it and downs it gratefully whilst pulling on button down, tugging up dress pants, slicking on her make-up with practised efficiency. 

“Thanks, Castle.  Gotta go.  See you later.”  The mug clacks down and she’s out the door.  Well.  Even a quick kiss would have been nice.

See you later?  Later at the precinct?  _Later_ later?  Both?  (ooh, _yes_ ) But first he’d better go home.  He washes up (better not leave her place untidy, that’s not attractive), struggles into yesterday’s clothes and does his walk of shame with a swagger in his step, because he may have been out all night but _Kate Beckett slept with him and it wasn’t a mistake_. 

* * *

 

Beckett hits the precinct in a flurry of just-in-time movement.  Ryan and Esposito look up, surprised.

“Thought you were sick, Beckett.  Don’t normally get here ahead of you.  What’s the story?”  There’s no significance behind the greeting, but Beckett flushes slightly.  The boys nudge each other below the level of the desk.  Time for a little revenge hazing.

“Forgot to set my alarm.  Overslept.”

“Really?” grins Esposito.  “Late night?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?  What’s the matter, Espo, no social life of your own to talk about?”

“I got plenty life,” states Esposito defensively.  Ryan sniggers, and Esposito glares.  “Where’s your shadow, Beckett?  He _oversleep_ too?”

“How should I know?  Ask him when he gets here.”  Beckett’s got her game face on.  The boys clearly know nothing, they’re just messing with her.  She can deal with that without breaking a sweat.  “Y’know, Espo, I’m sure if you went out a bit more you’d find _someone_ who’d put up with you.  Have you considered a dating site?”  Ryan’s red-faced with the effort of not laughing.  It’s always good to watch Beckett sharpening her claws – on someone else.  Esposito retires to his desk to regroup.

Ryan looks at Beckett, eyes full of mischief.  “Espo might not have a social life, but what about yours, Beckett?  C’mon, surely there’s something you wanna share with the team?”

“We-ell,” Beckett drawls slowly, “I started at that strip joint on West 54th, and once I’d picked up a couple of cute firemen we moved on to some bar in the meatpacking district…” Ryan’s gone purple and looks like he’s choking.  Esposito’s open-mouthed.  “Ahhh, you guys are so _easy_.  Nothing interesting about last night.”

And that’s what Castle hears as he comes out the elevator with the usual coffee and bear claws.  Beckett at her most casual, telling the boys that there’s nothing _interesting_ about last night.  A small chip of ice lands somewhere in his chest.  It’s not that he expected her to announce to the entire Twelfth that they’d spent the night together, but she hasn’t even mentioned that they had dinner.  But then Beckett turns at the ping of the elevator, and while the boys can’t see her face she smiles in the sexiest way imaginable (it says _I really liked what we did last night_ ), and instantly he remembers her standing in black lace this morning.  Maybe she’s just protecting their privacy.  She deliberately blanks her expression before she turns away, and the little chip of ice melts.

There’s no new body today, no new case.  At five, by general agreement, they shut down for the day.  Esposito’s suggesting a bar, but Beckett doesn’t look like she’s buying it.  She shakes her head firmly as Espo continues to insist.  “Nah.  Don’t want to cramp your social life, Espo.  See you all tomorrow.”  She doesn’t look at Castle.

He trails disconsolately after Ryan and Esposito, but his heart’s not in a night in a bar, so he makes his excuses and arrives at the loft in time to have dinner with Alexis.


	8. Life Worth Living

Beckett’s back in her apartment, restlessly shifting around.  Last night had been…illuminating.  She’d like nothing more than to text Castle to meet up tonight, but she feels that perhaps that’s not exactly keeping this in casual relationship territory.  She doesn’t want to run any risk of raising expectations or sending the wrong message.  She’s not that sort of woman.  Better to leave it a day or two.  Really.  She doesn’t want to, though.  So when her phone beeps and it’s Castle inviting her over, she decides that it would be rude to refuse.  Or something like that.  Nothing to do with the way he’s looked at her all day ( _I know what you’re wearing underneath, Beckett_ ) or last night.  She sends back _See you in half an hour_ and smiles.  Time to change out of her work clothes.  But definitely not the underwear.  She pulls on a tank top and some jeans, covers it with an almost off-the-shoulder soft jumper (very strokable) and she’s done.

Castle doesn’t want to look needy, but he isn’t exactly happy about being left without a word at the end of the day.  He’d hoped for a text from Beckett, but after dinner he couldn’t summon the patience to wait and see.  He’s not good at delayed gratification, except in more intimate  circumstances.  He admits (but only to himself) that he’s relieved she said yes.  Despite the smile this morning, there’d been nothing in her demeanour all day to indicate one way or the other.  He doesn’t like the uncertainty.  Usually he knows exactly where he stands romantically, comfortably in control of developments.  With Beckett he doesn’t feel in control of anything.  He doesn’t know what she wants, what game she might be playing.  She switched from utter disinterest to seduction so fast: what if she suddenly switches back?  He firmly puts that thought out his mind.

By the time Beckett raps firmly on the door Castle’s found some decent wine and some food.  He’s determined that she’ll at least eat before – anything else he can persuade her to.  Or she, him.  But secretly he’s hoping that _anything else_ will involve that underwear that he’s been thinking about all day.  He bounces to the door and ushers her inside, taking her coat and putting it away.  He’s a good host.  He’s proud of that.  And it’s all that’s keeping him from kissing her into insensibility up against his front door and slipping his hands under that soft jumper and finding the edges of that underwear and...  He recovers some composure and waves vaguely at the wine and food.

“Wine?”

Beckett sits down close to a glass and looks surprised that there’s food. 

“Can’t drink without something to eat.  Have some, Beckett.  It’s only chips.  I haven’t poisoned it or spiked it.”  He wriggles an eyebrow like a pantomime villain and Beckett laughs. 

“Since you put it so nicely, I’ll eat.  Why’d you ask me over?   Thought you and the boys were going to a bar?”

Castle looks at her sidelong.  She really doesn’t get it, does she?  “Well, you know.  Time listening to Espo about his social life, against dinner with Alexis – it’s a hard choice, but sometimes you just have to make sacrifices.” 

Beckett snorts inelegantly.  She’s perfectly aware that Castle makes sure Alexis is the first thing in his life, and she lo – _respects_ – him for it.  Whoa.  Back up there, Beckett.  Partners-with-benefits.  Casual relationship.  Absolutely _no_ serious emotional involvement.  She sips her wine, realises that Castle’s avoided answering the question.  He _has_ been paying attention at the precinct, hasn’t he?  So she tries again.  “Why’d you invite me over?  Wanna talk about the precinct some more?  Could’ve done that on the phone.”

“More fun in person, Beckett.” She rolls her eyes. 

“You’re _lonely_?  Mr Man-about-Town?”

“Yes, Beckett, of course I’m lonely.  Why else would I invite you over?”  He’s heavily sarcastic. 

Beckett just looks at him.  “You know I know when you’re lying, right?  Try again.” She takes another sip of wine.

“Okay.  I was bored.”

“Bored.  Really.  I’m not some amusement to fill your empty hours, Castle.”

And there’s his opening.  “Oh, I’d never describe you as an _amusement_ , Beckett.  But I’m sure that I can find some way for us to fill the evening.”

“What?  Monopoly?”

Castle moves across the couch and slides right up to her.  “Actually, I was thinking of kiss-chase.”  And he whips an arm around her, pulls her in and kisses her hard and fast.  “Unless you have a better idea.”

She doesn’t.  But she’s not going to be that easy.  “Playground game,” she says dismissively.  “Still such a child, Castle.”  She picks up her wine glass and looks deliberately unimpressed with his moves.

“Oh, I think you know I’m not a child, Beckett.  Shall I show you - again?”  He’s dropped into a bedroom voice, half an octave deeper, and it’s slinking down her nerves.  It’s a long time since she’s played this game, but she thinks she can still do it.  Last night it had been all too easy to fall into bed.  Tonight she’s going to make him work a little.  _Let’s see what you’ve got, Castle._   She sits back a little, out of his arm.  He smiles wickedly.

And then she pulls her jumper off over her head and suddenly the air in the room has all disappeared.  He can see the line of _that bra_ under surely the skimpiest tank  top that New York can sell.  He’s left gulping like a stranded whale and suddenly she’s got the upper hand again.

“You shouldn’t keep your heating so high, Castle,” she smirks.  “It’s a bit hot in here.”    She deliberately stretches to put the jumper out the way and he’d swear that there wasn’t a single bone in her body, the way it curves and bends.  Maybe she’s half cat.  He can’t stop thinking about her curving round him, into him, over him, under him.   If she’s a cat, he should pet her.  Stroke her.  Ruffle her fur.  He stretches just a fraction to try, but falls short.  Somehow she’s just a critical inch too far away.  He’s not sure how that happened.  One minute ago she was close enough to kiss, and the next she’s out of range.  He’s reminded of a kitten chasing a toy.  Only problem is, he’s the kitten and the toy’s winning.  It’s the wrong way round.  He’s not used to losing seduction games like this – then again, he’s not usually the one who cares if he loses.  Well, if that’s the way she wants to play, who is he to argue?  _Kiss-chase for grown-ups, Beckett._

He uses the excuse of grabbing some of the chips to block Beckett’s exit route and slip incrementally nearer.  She’s hiding her mouth behind her wine glass, but he can see amusement and deep green arousal in her eyes.  He moves in a bit more deliberately, till there’s no way she can get out of reach without standing up.  She sets her glass down with a sharp click and stretches in that same fluid, feline way, ending up poised elegantly in the corner of the couch, head back and neck exposed.  The tank top’s ridden up slightly and there’s a very touchable slash of midriff on view.  _Game on._

He leans in, draws a fingertip line down behind her ear, along the tendon of her neck, past the pulse that’s suddenly jumping.  Ahhh.  Not so cool now, Beckett.  Her breath catches, just a hint of a hitch.  Otherwise she doesn’t move, waits for him.  She’s still looking amused, but he knows that it won’t last much longer.  His thumb runs across the slash of skin, large fingers covering the bottom of her ribcage.  She shivers.  When his fingers shift and move under the tank top, sliding round behind her to tug her in, she looks up and slowly wets her lips.  It’s all the invitation he needs.

Beckett’s feeling rather satisfied that she can still play the game.  As Castle’s hands smooth up over her back to pull her in she leans forward and nips his ear, deftly avoiding his lips.  She’s not done proving that she’s in control of the playground.  She runs her own hand around his waist, loosens his shirt and flicks her fingernails delicately across his chest, his nipples.  He gasps and presses her in tight, pulling her into his lap and angling her for access to her mouth, neck, and then dips to her breast through the tank top and bra, tugging gently with his teeth, soothing with his tongue.  One hand’s moving up the inseam of her jeans, way north of discretion.  Her thighs press together, trapping his fingers just short of nirvana.  She’s on the point of undoing his pants button when she remembers suddenly that they are in the _middle of his living room_ and he doesn’t live alone.

“Castle.  _Castle!_  We have to stop.”

“No, don’t stop.  Let me kiss you some more.”

“Castle.  This is your living room.  Where’s Alexis?  Where’s Martha?  I’m not getting caught making out with you by your family.”

Um.  Possibly carrying on here would lead to scenes that would need explanations he’d rather not give.   But there are other options.

“We can find somewhere more private, Beckett.”  He runs an encouraging stroke from knee to hip.  She wriggles, and for a moment he thinks he’s convinced her.  But then she pushes away.

“I have to get home.”  He’s hugely disappointed.  That’s no fun.

“Why?  Stay here.  It’ll be worth it.”

“No.  I can’t stay.  I have to go to work tomorrow.”  She’s reaching for her jumper, checking for her phone.   He whisks the jumper out of her reach.  “Give it back, Castle.”

“Won’t.  Come and get it.”  He dances out the way as she swipes at him.  He’s unobtrusively moving toward his bedroom door, hoping Beckett hasn’t noticed.  Vain hope.

“Castle, I’m not playing.  I know what you’re doing.  Give me my jumper or I’ll leave without it.”  He pouts but concedes.  But when Beckett comes to take it he pulls her hard in and kisses her anyway, interrogating her mouth until she’s curved against him and moaning softly.

“Are you sure about going home?” he entices.  “Wouldn’t it be nicer to stay here a little longer?” He runs his hands under the back of the tank top.   _Come on, Beckett.  You know you want to._ But he’s underestimated her resolve.

“I need to go.  See you tomorrow, Castle.”  And she’s gone.

Castle takes himself and his severe frustration to his annoyingly empty bed, by way of the coldest shower he can bear.  He feels that he’s been deprived, though he knows it’s perfectly reasonable that Beckett didn’t want to get into it in the middle of the loft.  But it’s not fair.  It would have been so good.  He’s not used to this.  He’s never before had to chase a woman.  They chased him.  And it’s especially irritating that Beckett, who has to his knowledge not been in any sort of a relationship since Sorensen left her, can run rings round him without even meaning to.  Well.  He’ll just have to up his game.  If seductive games are the way to bring her closer, he can play those to Olympic standard.  His sleep is full of dreams of Beckett, naked, needy and wanting.  He wakes in considerable discomfort, several times.


	9. As They Turn Your Dream To Shame

Beckett’s in the cab home, feeling a little unhappy that she couldn’t just stay, but knowing that she had to leave before everything got out of hand.  She is not going to embark on some passionate every-night-all-night-never-apart affair.  That’s not what she wants, it’s not what she’s going to imply she wants, and on general observations it’s not what Castle wants. She’s not going to promise a come-on she can’t deliver.   She doesn’t listen to the small voice in her head saying _you wanted to prove to yourself you **could** still walk away_.

But later that night she wakes terrified and shaking.  She’s not just dreamed of Detective Raglan at the door, she’s revisited all the papers in the case file, all the pictures.  And in each of them her mother’s corpse is saying _Why haven’t you solved my case?_   She’s left abraded and limp.  She can’t get back to sleep, she can’t shake the vision.  She gets up and goes to the precinct even though it’s four am, down to the archive, takes down the familiar file, reads it for the thousandth time.  There’s nothing new, no inspiration, only the cold hard typeface and the morgue reports and pictures.  She can’t find a trail to follow.  She’s been down every possible route, over and over again.  Even the evidence Castle had found months ago hasn’t led anywhere.  There has to be something.  How is it that she can solve every other case but not the one that destroyed her dreams?  Shame at her incompetence and guilt at her failure pools in her gut.  She knows it’s going to be a long, hard day.  Sitting in the dingy archive room, she carefully recreates her Detective Beckett shell, layering a varnish of indifference over her emotions until she can deal with whatever the day will bring.

When coffee appears on her desk she doesn’t even look up, doesn’t notice.  It’s only when she swings round from her paperwork that she realises it’s there, and so, of course, is Castle.  “Thanks,” she murmurs, but her attention’s already on the screen and she doesn’t really look at him, doesn’t see the flick of concern on his face.

Castle’s been watching Beckett for fifteen minutes and not once had she registered his presence.   He doubts she’d have registered anything less than a shootout over the desk.  And yet again there’s that very careful make-up which isn’t concealing (to the trained observer) the lack of sleep.  He’d like to think it was for the same reasons he didn’t sleep well: at least that would be consolation of a sort, but Beckett’s back to brittle and that doesn’t spell _unresolved sexual tension_ to him.  He pushes the pastry across towards her and relaxes slightly when she automatically bites into it.  At least he can feed her.  He’d like to sling a comforting arm around her shoulders, hug the tension away, but it’s the precinct and the Keep Off signs have rarely been more obvious.  Deep inside, he falls a little harder.  Nearer the surface, he struggles to understand what’s wrong.  She was fine when she was in his loft (oh, _so_ fine).  She was fine when she left his loft.  So obviously whatever went wrong, went wrong when she got home.

He worries at that thought till it’s thoroughly shredded.  If the problem with Kate (when she’s unhappy, he thinks of her as _Kate_ ) is at home, then is the solution not to leave her home alone?  There’s a thought with a lot of side benefits.  But side-benefits aren’t quite the point any more.  A week ago, before he told her she smelt like cherries, before she was crying in her apartment, before he slept with her, that would have been enough.  But things are changing.  He’s changing.  He wants more.  Sure, kick-ass Detective Beckett is just so good in bed that he can’t quite believe it happened, but it’s not just about getting her into bed as often as possible.  Though that’s certainly part of it.  He wants to fix the problem.  He wants to make it better.  He wants her to open up and share and be partners for real.  Kate and Rick, not just Beckett and Castle.  But he doesn’t ( _yet_ , he tells himself) know how.   He doesn’t even know _what_.  So.  Well.  Find out _what_.

The morning passes slowly by. Castle occupies the space till lunchtime by playing on his phone until he can encourage Beckett out for lunch.  Seeing as it’s a paperwork day so far, Remy’s seems like the best option.  It’s not like anyone has to rush back to follow up a clue.  So as long as no body appears, they’ll be fine.

Beckett mutters darkly about the paperwork not doing itself and annoying writers who don’t get that police work runs on paper, but eventually she agrees to come out just to shut him up.  Besides, she’s hungry.  But no sooner are they in the elevator than Castle’s in her face about _Are you okay, Beckett?_   She doesn’t want to discuss it.  So she lies.

“Of course I am.”  Castle looks penetratingly at her.

“Liar,” he says smugly.  “You forget, Detective, that I am an expert on make-up.”

“Have you been using Martha’s cosmetics again, Castle?  I thought that skin tone looked a little artificial.”

“I _mean_ , Beckett, that under that very attractive and extremely carefully applied make-up, you look like you didn’t sleep.  What’s wrong?”

“Way to make a girl feel good, Castle.  Nothing’s wrong.  I just didn’t sleep so well.  That’s all.  I’m fine.”  Castle watches her sceptically.  He doesn’t think she’s fine at all.  “Look.   If I just get a good night’s sleep tonight I’ll be perfectly _fine._   And how much do you know about applying make-up anyway?”

“Lots, as it happens.  Being backstage is very informative.  I know all the tricks.  And you need a little lighter concealer under your eyes than your usual tone if you’re going to cover up the dark circles properly.”

“Okay.  This conversation is _over_.  I am fine.  My make-up is fine.  There is nothing wrong.  Can we get lunch now?”  Beckett strides off towards Remy’s.  Make-up tips from Writer-Boy.  Now she really needs food.  Or whiskey.

All through lunch Castle’s prodding at her, trying to trick her into admitting what’s wrong.  By the time she’s got her food, she’s utterly fed up with him.  “Castle, I promise you that if you don’t just _shut up_ I will shoot you here and now and leave your body to be turned into burgers.”  She realises that she’s left him an opening just an instant too late.

“Would you eat me, Beckett?” She gapes at him, speechless.  “If I were a burger?”  He smirks, and for a minute she remembers back to a week ago and two nights ago and last night and what she did and hedid and they did.  She blushes almost imperceptibly, but Castle notices and is suddenly very clearly following the same line of thought.  His eyes get dark and the smirk shifts to a more dangerous look.  She drops her eyes and concentrates very obviously on her lunch.  It doesn’t stop her body reacting, the thrum of physical memory.  The remainder of lunch is deeply uncomfortable.  She spends most of it trying not to lift her eyes up from her plate, because every time she does she can’t help flicking a glance at his mouth and remembering just how soft it felt, just how clever it was on her lips, neck, breasts…Enough.  This is not helping.  Better go back to dry, boring paperwork.

Castle attempts to follow her back to the precinct but she tells him to go home.  “It’ll be paperwork all afternoon and I don’t want you distracting me.”  Shit.  Another opening.  She really needs to get herself together.

“So you admit I’m a distraction?  Why, Beckett, that’s nearly the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”  His annoying grin is enough of a provocation to give her a complete defence to well-deserved murder.  She drops her share of bills on the table and exits.  Castle takes care of the check and wanders back to his loft.  He’s plotting whether to turn up on Beckett’s doorstep that evening.  Hmm.  the chance of discovering what’s wrong (possibly with excellent sex thrown in) against the chance of being physically maimed.  Maturity, especially when he’s not used to displaying it, is no defence to curiosity.  There’s no contest, really.

And so shortly after nine he taps on Beckett’s door, bearing chocolate dessert (no cupcakes, no pie, no baked goods.  He can learn.  Really.)  When there’s no answer, he calls her phone.  When there’s no answer to that, he texts.  And when there’s no answer to that too, he leaves the box with a scrawled note on top and meanders towards home unhappily.  He wonders where she is, what she’s doing, and who she might be doing it with.  Nothing occurs to him that doesn’t knot his chest.  Still, he thinks he’ll drop by the precinct on the way, just in case.  He’s found her there before.

The bullpen’s dark and empty.  Castle’s about to give up when he spots the little light that tells him Beckett’s computer is still running, and when he gets closer he sees her purse in the part-open drawer.  She can’t have left yet.  That’s a bit strange for a paperwork day.  He makes himself some coffee and waits.  And waits.  And waits.  Unless something’s seriously physically wrong that’s not a restroom break.  Maybe she’s sparring.  He checks the gym.  No.  He returns to his chair and waits some more.  Eventually he goes home, almost an hour later, confused and frustrated.

Beckett’s down in archives again, still searching for a trail.  Still failing to find one.  Deep in her own private nightmare she misses the beep of a text, misses the ringtone.  Finally she leaves the precinct, hoping to be tired enough to sleep dreamlessly.  It’s only when she gets home and almost trips on the box at her door that she thinks to look at her phone.  Oh.  Missed call, Castle.  Text, Castle.  Box, left by Castle.  (she recognises the black scribble without effort) _Brought you chocolate.  Where are you?_   She texts back _Thank you._   The chocolate confection is predictably delicious, and when she sleeps, if she dreams she doesn’t remember it.


	10. I've Only Been Pretending

It’s another slow, paper-pushing day at the Twelfth, but Castle shows up late afternoon because he’s bored and short of inspiration and avoiding Gina’s calls.  And he’s still curious, both about what’s wrong and about what Beckett was doing at the precinct so late.  The boys are pleased to see him.  Even Beckett’s mildly pleased to see him.  And she thanks him again for the chocolate dessert.  Ryan and Esposito’s ears prick up.

“Chocolate dessert?  Where?”

“It was _mine_ ,”points out Beckett.  “Left at my apartment.  And I ate it all, so stop looking like a bunch of baby birds.”  Three sets of eyes look at her as if she’s Caligula.

“You ate it _all_?”  They’re officially shocked.

“Took one for the team, boys.  Wouldn’t want any of you to fail your physical.”  Three almost-identical glares leave her in no doubt of their opinion of her right now.

“What if you fail yours?” 

Beckett smirks evilly.  “Last time I looked at the stats I could outrun the lot of you.  In heels.  I don’t think I’m in any danger.”  The boys retire, muttering darkly about unfairness and preferential treatment.  She picks up the next batch of paperwork.

“How can you still have this much paperwork when you were still in here at ten last night?”

Beckett looks up in utter shock.  Her face goes blank.  “How would you know whether I were here last night?”  The precise grammar is an admission in itself.

“I came by to tell you about the dessert.”  It’s not quite a lie.

“Stalking is creepy, Castle.  Not attractive.”  She’s deflecting.

“But you were here.  Your purse was here.”

“I was probably in the restroom. “

“Beckett.”  He sounds exasperated. “I waited for you nearly an hour.  Where were you?  You weren’t sparring, you weren’t in the restroom, and you weren’t here.”

The mask settles firmly into place and he just knows that the next thing she says will be a lie.

“I must have been in the shower after sparring.  Sorry I missed you.”  She smiles easily.  It’s wholly false.  “But the chocolate was delicious.”  It’s no good.  She’s impenetrable.  Even if she’s lying, calling her on it here and now isn’t going to work.   Change the subject.

“Seeing as you cruelly deprived me of even a taste of the amazing chocolate dessert”  – _and I didn’t get to see you suck it off the spoon which I have dreamed about since we had dinner_  – “I think you should” _– come over and stay all night –_ “get me one in return.”

“Castle, you don’t give people things and then ask them to give you things back.  Was it supposed to be a present?”

“Well, yes,” he admits somewhat shamefacedly.

“So you shouldn’t expect anything in return, then, should you?”

“Well, no.”  He’s beginning to feel like a victim of Miss Manners, six years old again and squirming with embarrassment as he’s told off in front of the class.

And then she leans over and flashes bedroom eyes and whispers in that ripped-silk voice, “Good things come to those who _wait_ , Castle,” and suddenly his pants are tight and the bullpen’s got very warm and this might be a good moment to go and get some ice water.  She’s snickering as he leaves.  She knows perfectly well what she’s just done.  _You’ll pay for that, Beckett.  Oh yes._

Beckett’s feeling very smug.  Castle’s had to retire in, well, _confusion_ and he’s been effectively distracted from the awkward line he’d been pursuing.  Avoiding things is, after all, her specialty.  She’ll deal with any consequences later.  It might even be fun.

* * *

 

It’s wholly unsurprising when the door sounds and Castle’s visible through the peephole.  In fact, the only surprise is that he waited this long.  Not that she’s been watching the clock.  No.  She pads across the floor to let him in, keeping a safe distance out of reach.  He looks a bit…bothered.  It turns out a safe distance wasn’t quite safe enough.  Castle lunges for her, pins her up against the door and kisses her hard until her head spins, pressing into her so she can’t possibly mistake the bulge in his pants for anything other than extreme frustration.

“You are the biggest damn tease in New York,” he rasps, in between plundering her mouth.

“Can’t stand the heat, get out the kitchen.” 

“I’ll show you _heat_.”  And his hands are up the back of her shirt, undoing bra hooks and sliding down to her ass, lifting one leg around his hips so he can move into just the right angle to make her roll against him and gasp.  He’s still talking, nibbling down the tendon in her neck.  “I’ll show you what _waiting_ ’s all about.”  His fingers move round to palm her breast through her sweatshirt and she pushes into them.  “Who’s teasing now?”  His hands are hot and forceful and she thinks that teasing him earlier might have been a really, really dangerous idea. He pulls just far enough back to tug the sweatshirt off and leave her in another tiny, tiny tank top that does absolutely nothing to conceal her erect nipples.  When he bends his head and sucks she moans, reaches for his shirt buttons.  But he won’t let her.  He catches her slim wrists together and carries on driving her wild with his mouth.

“My turn to tease.  You think you can pull that trick in front of the whole bullpen and get away with it?  Not likely, Beckett.”  He’s pushing her leggings down, still licking and stroking, seeking access to the heat and pooling damp between her legs.  When he scrapes a finger over her panties she whimpers.  She’s halfway to naked, three-quarters to undone, and he hasn’t even taken his jacket off in his hurry.  She’d forgotten how exciting it could be to provoke this reaction.  She rubs against him, desperate for the friction of his hard body against her, hunting for her own release.  “Uh-uh.  You have to _wait_.”  And he slowly strokes just under the edge of her panties, a critical inch from where she wants him, leaves her writhing and whimpering as he takes his hand away.  He removes the tank top, removes her bra, eases off her leggings, till she’s standing in nothing but her soaking panties with him pinning her shoulders against the door.  She’s utterly, shockingly aroused.  He trails his fingers between her legs, up over her breast, slips them into her mouth so she can taste herself on them.  She’s making noises that she’d be embarrassed about, if it didn’t feel so _good_.  She reaches for him, tugging him closer by the belt loops, undoing his belt, the button, the zip, slips her hand into his pants, over the heavy weight.  He groans and pulls her hand away.

“Not yet, Beckett.”  He leans into her and rocks his hips till she’s grinding into him and wrapping one leg around him to hold him right in where she needs him and her breathing gets shorter and shorter and her circling more and more frantic and she’s right on the edge when he pulls back, slides his hand down between them and into her panties, fingers slipping past the wet folds and into her, thumb pressing on her and that’s all it takes for her to come _hard_.

When the world comes back into focus Castle’s propping her upright.  Her knees don’t seem to be working yet.  “Worth _waiting_ for?” She nods weakly.  Speaking is beyond her.  “Now, don’t you think it’s my turn?”

“Bedroom,” she whispers.  Standing is not going to be possible for a while.  She wraps her arms round his neck and her legs round his waist for him to carry her into her bedroom and lay her out on the bed.

Castle’s achingly, painfully ready and carrying Beckett like this is really not doing anything for his self-control.  He just wants to spread her open and settle into the hot wet centre of her thighs and make them forget their own names together. _Just get to the bed_.  And after entirely too long (because even seconds are too long when she’s wrapped around him) he lays her down, divests her of her panties in one smooth stroke and strips off his own clothes to be finally naked with her.  She tangles her hands in his hair and pulls his head down, hot and demanding under his lips.  As he slides slowly further south, nibbling and sucking as he goes, she’s making sexy little noises that start to turn into moaning and when he reaches her hipbone and bites gently she’s begging _more Castle harder Castle_ but that’s not his plan yet: she needs to be closer because once he’s inside of her this simply will not last long enough.  He drags his tongue over her and finally puts his mouth over her and traces light circles on her till she’s screaming for him to _stop teasing and fuck me already_.  And after one last soft wet stroke he rises over her and pushes inside and she’s so wet and tight that it takes every last piece of control to make sure she comes again and it’s so hard that he can’t stop his own release any longer and collapses spent across her.

Eventually he regains the energy to roll off her and simply hold on, gently tracing patterns on her skin.  She curves sleepily into him, eyes closed.  “Stay a while?” she murmurs.  He doesn’t think that he’s capable of leaving until he’s sure what planet this is.  He acquiesces with a wordless rumble.  He knows he needs to go home.  Just – not quite yet.

Some time later he realises regretfully that he really does have to leave. He kisses Kate until she’s part awake and tells her he has to go.  She’s asleep again before he’s found his boxers.  He locates all his clothes – it takes a while - and is on the point of opening the apartment door when he hears Kate cry out.  He bolts back to the bedroom,  sits down on the bed and pulls her into him, cradling her against his shoulder, desperate to wake her from whatever this is.  All too slowly she rises from it, limp and shivering.

“Kate, what the hell was that?”  He’s really, genuinely worried.

“Ugh, nightmare.  I’ll be okay in a minute.”  She knows that isn’t true.  But now she just wants Castle gone and he won’t go if he thinks there’s more to it.  Casual relationship or not, he tends towards protectiveness whenever he thinks someone’s upset.  She’s seen it with Alexis plenty times.  She doesn’t want it focused on her.  She forces herself not to shiver.  “Ugh,” she repeats.  "Nasty.  Feral zombies chasing me.”  She shakes her head to clear it.

“Are you sure you’re okay?  Do you want me to stay longer?”

“Nah, thanks.  I’ll get a drink and maybe read something for a bit.  No horror books though.”

He’s not wholly convinced.  The explanation is a little too facile, too readily offered.  And Kate’s still very shaky.  But he doesn’t really have a choice. 

“Okay.  See you tomorrow.” He turns back to her to kiss her swiftly.

“Till tomorrow.”


	11. The City Goes To Bed

When the door clicks shut Beckett lets the mask slip and the adrenaline drain away.  Another dream about her mother.  She shivers, wraps the comforter around her, stares at the wall as her heart rate slows.  There’s no answer to her nightmares on the paint. 

The kitchen yields hot chocolate, though it’s thin as she has no milk.  For once coffee doesn’t seem like a good idea.  She curls up on the couch in her comforter with a second-rate fluff novel that needs no thought and has no triggers.  Maybe she’ll sleep after.  It’s only midnight.  Plenty time to sleep before shift.

She’d thought that good sex ( _you mean sex with Castle_ , says the small voice in her head that she isn’t listening to) stopped the nightmares.  Maybe she’d been wrong.  But she doesn’t want to give it up yet.  She can give it up any time she likes.  Just not now.

Hours later she falls asleep, woken far too soon by the metallic buzz of the alarm.  She struggles into work and of course that’s the point a body drops.  Bike messenger, deliberate hit-and-run, packet stolen.  Her thoughts are sluggish.  It doesn’t make sense yet.  Castle’s watching her far too closely for comfort  and she’s sure he can see straight through the make-up to spot the lack of sleep.  But he doesn’t say anything about it, just provides a constant stream of coffee that enables her to behave almost as usual.

Package is traced through the courier company but due to idiocy they end up running a SWAT team operation on what turns out to be a sick woman with far too many felines.  It’s embarrassing.  Esposito turns out to be surprisingly good at fixing doors, but not so good with tea and cats.  Package sent from prison, sender killed that morning.  Every inmate’s a suspect.  Sender’s kid is the only lead they’ve got now: they’ll catch him at a hospital tomorrow and interview the mom.

At the end of the day they’ve made better progress than usual on the first day of a case.  She goes home, via the store so at least she has milk, and flops tiredly into the sofa, ordering pizza because it’s easy and she needs the calories and (most importantly) they deliver in less than half an hour so that she can eat and sleep.  She gets ready for bed while she waits for the delivery: soft boy shorts, loose T-shirt, warm robe.  She’s been cold all day.  Familiar cramp is coiling low in her stomach.

Pizza arrives and she’s just finishing it off when there’s a recognisable rap at the door.  She sighs.  She’s really too tired for this.  Bouncy is _so_ not what she needs right now.  She opens and says _Hey_ as politely as she can manage.  Castle looks a bit disappointed at her lack of enthusiasm for seeing him but comes in anyway, grinning happily.

“What is it, Castle?  I’m tired.”

“I thought you might want some company.”

“No, I need some sleep.”  Castle looks instantly hopeful.  “Alone.”  His face falls and he produces his best puppy eyes, big, blue and appealing.  She’s unmoved.  “It’s very sweet of you to come over” – it’s faintly patronising – “but I’m really tired.”

 “I could tuck you in before I go,” he points out helpfully.  “I’m good at that.  Or…”

She reaches for the door.  “Goodnight, Castle.”  She just has time to think that he’s actually a lot bigger than she normally realises when he pulls her into a hug and kisses her.  She sputters wrathfully.

“Night, Beckett.  See you tomorrow.”  He’s out the door before she can reply.  Or slap him.  She leans against it, wondering why she feels better.   Drowsiness invites her hastily to bed, still wondering.

Sleep comes softly, the kiss still light on her lips.   But in the small hours of the morning she’s wrenched awake by the jagged edges of her nightmares, and neither drinks nor books nor painkillers can give her further rest.  She’s back in the archives at dawn, knowing she’s falling down the rabbit-hole of her obsession but completely incapable of stopping.

* * *

 

Castle descends the elevator, not much relieved.  He’d gone over on a surge of worry, and while now he knows that Beckett is actually eating, without make-up the effects of sleeplessness were only too clear.  He ponders all the way back to his own loft, ticking off what he knows.  Item: she was crying.  Item: she’s more damaged by her mother’s murder than she’s ever let show.  Item: that astounding volte-face on the way to Jean-Georges.  Item: the amazing sex.  Item: she isn’t eating properly.  Item: she isn’t sleeping.  Item: last night’s nightmare.  Item: lies.  Lies about being okay.  Lies about what she was doing at the precinct late at night.  Lies about the subject of the nightmare.

Lies to keep him at a distance.

That thought hurts.  She’ll share her body with him but nothing more?  Kate Beckett, _I’m more of a one-and-done girl_ , all fierce integrity, just using him for sex?  It doesn’t fit with everything he’s observed about her.  Though…maybe he just never wanted to find out how she feels about sex because he’s hoped for so long that she would sleep with him and he couldn’t bear thinking about her with someone else?  So maybe she is just in it for a casual affair.  That thought hurts too. 

He slumps heavily in his study.  There’s only one way to deal with the pain, write.  More of those blazing chapters that he started a week ago, but now it’s Rook who’s anguished.  The raw emotions spill from his fingers for hours.  He doesn’t notice the night pass.  When he finally stops it’s almost dawn.  He starts to read back: it’s the best he’s ever written (because it’s real, not just research) but he can hardly cope with reading it.   

But then, why should he be surprised she isn’t sharing?  It’s not like she’s let him in and then shut him out, he’s never _been_ allowed in.  She only told him about her mother because he dragged it out of her, then any good he might have won after that he ruined when he went prying into that investigation.  She’s told him nothing ever since, sticking to cases, superficialities and smart remarks.  He doesn’t even know if she paid attention to what he found.  And it’s not like she has any reason to think he’s serious.  He’s flirted with her since he first saw her, and his reputation with women is not exactly – modest.  She probably thinks he’s only up for a casual fling.  Question still is, why is _she_? 

It still hurts, even though she owes him _nothing_ , hurts worse than the disaster that marriage to Gina became, worse, even, than finding Meredith cheating.  At least he got a book deal out of Gina that made him a multi-millionaire and Alexis from Meredith.  There doesn’t seem to be an upside to this pain. He can’t think any more, falls into the oblivion of sleep.  If he dreams, he doesn’t remember it.

Later in the morning he thinks that maybe if he can put aside last night’s hurt he can focus on the story, building it from the facts he has.  But he can’t do it now.  It’s too raw.

Seeing Beckett as he exits the elevator at the Twelfth is so utterly painful he can’t express it.  He squashes it into a small space and shrugs into his public personality, charming and smooth and completely impenetrable.  He thinks bitterly that he’s learned more from Beckett than he’s realised.  But when he drops into his seat he realises that she can’t have slept properly again as the dark circles are heavier than ever and the make-up isn’t even close to hiding it any more.  Not from him, at least.  Seems like someone else is hurting too. 

Beckett’s fully focused on the case.  Interview with the wife points up that the package was an insurance policy, to keep cash coming in return for a false confession.  Sender unknown.  Financials show the recent money late or short or both, then right again.  Bent guard in the prison.  New case, old case.  She’s doing what she does best.

He tells Montgomery that the start of the story is the hardest bit, because it sets up everything else.  So if they solve the old case, they’ll solve the new one.  And then it hits him.  The start of the Beckett story.

The beginning is her mother’s murder.  He knows it reshaped her dreams, threw her into being a cop, is – the defining event that everything she’s done since has come from.  Oh.  The homicide she hasn’t solved.   Is _that_ what’s behind all this?  She could have been in archives when he went to the precinct: he hadn’t thought to look there.  If she’s falling back into a spiral of obsession with that case…  if the nightmares are because she hasn’t, can’t, solve it… if she isn’t sleeping because of the nightmares…then what?  His gut twists.  The last time he tried to _help_ it backfired so badly he wasn’t allowed back in the precinct for months and nearly lost her for ever.  He can’t fix this with clever words or food or comfort or sex.  He can’t fix this at all.  All he can do is be there, as and when she needs him.  Even if all she wants from him is sex.  But still it hurts.

He doesn’t know what he should do.  Press forward and try to show Beckett that he’s not just in it for a casual relationship, hoping that she’ll open up?  Carry on with the current situation, let her keep it casual, as something is better than nothing where Beckett’s concerned?  Give up and leave the precinct?  He doesn’t think he _can_ leave.  He doesn’t think he can stay away from her, no matter how much it hurts.  Maybe carry on.  Re-evaluate later, when perhaps he’ll be able to give it up.  Just – not now.

More evidence piles up on the case.  Original murdered girl was at a high society party the night she died, arguing with some other guest. Clear description of the guest's clothes.  Turns out it's the highest of political high society.  Ugh.  Family look like clones, but waitress remembers spilt wine.  A name: Trent Wellesley.

When they all finish up for the day Castle’s only too glad to go home.  The sore knot in his chest hasn’t improved with proximity and he’s no nearer a way to show Beckett how he feels than he was back a week ago.  Outside, she’s showing the same adamantine shell she always has been.


	12. Stand With Me

Beckett hasn’t gone home at all.  She’s back down in archives, reviewing everything, circling around and around in desperation.  There has to be something.  The knife wounds are the same as other homicides, but those files don’t yield anything either.  It’s hopeless.  She knows it’s hopeless: has been hopeless for ten years, but she can’t stop.  Won’t stop.  Stopping would be a betrayal of her memories of her mother, her father’s hard-won sobriety, herself.  When she can’t see for tiredness, she finally leaves.

She’s cold and her stomach is still cramping when she gets to her apartment.  She’s tempted to call Castle just to hear a reassuring voice, but he’d been unusually guarded most of the day under the normal amiability.  She thinks she’d better leave him be, give him space, not make it look as if she wants something more.  Because she doesn’t.  Really.  The thought makes her rather more unhappy than she expects.  _Pull yourself together, Kate.  No strings._   But he’s just so comforting, big enough to make her feel safe.  _I can give it up any time I like_.  Just not now.  She falls into bed and dreams of him kissing her, hard against her, filling her.  Her alarm wakes her and for the first time in two days she’s slept through the night.

A full night’s sleep has left her much more on top of her game than yesterday.  Castle seems a bit happier, too.  There’s still some reserve in his eyes, but with every exchange it’s fading.  She’s glad of that: she likes her partner the way he usually is.

Interview with Trent and his semi-senile grandmother takes them to Winston.  Not a happy man, but admits knowing Olivia.  No alibi.  Late that night they’re asking to exhume Olivia.  It’s not pleasant.  But Winston Wellesley paid for the funeral.  And they’ve got the duty roster from the prison.  Looking good.  Even if the Wellesleys need put back in their box.

The exhumation is brought to the morgue in the small hours of the morning.  The body’s _missing_.  There’s no lead on when or where.  But the drawer in the lid has photos .  Olivia’s mother worked on the first Wellesley campaign in the seventies.  The boys have picked up the dirty guard.

Beckett’s in full give-him-hell mode re-interviewing Winston. Not enough evidence to charge him, but they bring him in.  Suddenly it falls into place.  Blake’s the father.  Grandmother orchestrated the cover up.  Hated Olivia.  The factotum Frank was told to take care of her.  Bent guard confirms it.  Montgomery nails Frank before he runs. 

Beckett’s on her way to tell the messenger’s sister the result, knowing that closure only comes with answers.  Castle doesn't think that having answers makes it any easier, but how would he know?

“It does, in time,” she tells him.  She partitions that thought away from the rest of her mind to let her do her job.  She hasn’t any answers, and it hasn’t got easier.

He looks after her as she goes to sit with the sister, stunned by her ability to use her own pain to ease others’.  And as he watches her he recognises that he’s in so far over his head he can’t see the surface any more and he’s drowned without even noticing.  Too late to walk away.  He can’t.  Even if she’s only in it for casual.

Beckett finishes with the grieving sister at last, and starts on the post-case paperwork.  Montgomery's not impressed.  "You get on out of here, Beckett.  Go home and rest up.  Paperwork can be done tomorrow."  It's an order, however lightly spoken.  She packs up her purse and notices that Castle's still leaning on the break room door.  He looks like he's waiting for her.  Hmm.

"Let's go get a drink, Beckett.  Celebrate another closure."  He's all little-boy enthusiasm, wanting everyone to share in the fun.  And after all, what could a drink hurt?  It might blot out some of the memories, for a while.  She follows him into the elevator and out.

A drink turns into wine at Castle's.  Martha is out - apparently she's reconnected with her high school sweetheart through MySpace.  Or MyFace, as she's calling it.  Castle admits somewhat sheepishly that Alexis is out too and Beckett looks at him quizzically.

"Can I trust your motives, Castle?  You've inveigled me to an empty loft and you're plying me with alcohol.  Uniform cops warn girls about this sort of set-up."  She's laughing.  She's perfectly confident that she's safe. 

"Of course, Detective."  But he's turned away, opening the wine, and she can't see his face.  There's an odd undertone to the smooth confirmation.  It doesn't sound like seduction, though.  It sounds like - concern?  When he turns around again it's the normal smile, crinkling the corners of his eyes, a little mischievous, a lot sexy. 

"So," he says, sitting next to her, "what did you think of New York's high society family?"

She makes a disgusted face.  "Ugh.  Unpleasant hangers on, mostly, hoping to be remembered in the inheritance.  I hate dealing with people who think they're entitled to something just because of who their family is.  The best bit of the whole case was Montgomery slapping them down."

"You don't want to join the ranks of the political elite, then?  Not going to run for office when you're older on the back of your clear up rate?" 

"No way.  Politics - not likely.  I'd rather solve homicides till I'm ninety.  I'll give up when -" Castle notices a very slight pause in the flow - "I can't outrun Espo in heels anymore."

"That's not what you started to say."  Oops.  He hadn't meant to say that out loud.

"Didn't want to be rude to you.  After all, I'm drinking your wine in your loft.  Not nice to be rude to your host."  It's a good recovery.  But not good enough.  He knows she's lying again.

Beckett is berating herself.  She nearly said - _when I've solved my mother's case_.  Refuge is behind her glass of wine, hiding her mouth and most of her expression.  There are unexpected advantages to large glasses, she's found.  Time for a bit of distraction.  This is far too close to things she doesn't want to talk about.  Even to Ca - _what?_   Even to Castle?  No no no no no.  Not to anyone.   Deflect, distract, divert. 

She leans a little way in towards Castle.  Predictably, his arm comes up over the back of the couch to fall lightly over her shoulders.  She knows she shouldn't, especially since she won't be carrying through tonight, ( _damn_ ) but she settles in comfortably against his chest and allows the embrace to tighten round her.  It’s warm and reassuring and she could just stay tucked in here all night.  She takes another gulp of wine, puts the glass down.  There’s an approving rumble under her ear and a matching click.  “Good move, Beckett.  Wouldn’t want to spill it when I kiss you.” And her face is turned up between his large hands and his head bends down and she parts her lips just as he meets them.   It’s soft and slow and gentle, none of the sound and fury of previous nights.  She slides her hands up into his hair and holds him to her, simply enjoying the moment.  But when he starts to stroke easily over her back, slide under her shirt, she pulls away.  “Aww, Beckett.  Don’t do that.  Come back.”

“No, Castle,” she says, and he hears the regret in her tone.  “I can’t.  It’s not a good day for more.”  She’s just a little embarrassed, enough for him to understand.  He’s been married twice, after all.

“ ‘S okay, Beckett.  We can just stay here, make out a little more.” He’s grinning.  It’s adorable.  So she kisses him again and slips back into the crook of his arm.

He wouldn't be honest with himself if he didn't admit to some disappointment.  Still, some gentle –or heavy - making out is a different kind of pleasure: affection is something he hasn't had much of a chance to bestow on Kate.  Perhaps if it's not just sex they share...perhaps affection can succeed where raw desire has not.  He knows she’s just distracting him, but it’s such an effective, pleasurable way to do it he’s happy to play along.  He’ll get answers some other time.  He stops thinking in favour of kissing her some more, tasting the wine on her palate, delicately stroking with his tongue, receiving back the same lazy, gentle fondness.  He could do this for ever.  This time when he glides his hand under her shirt, over her ribs, she doesn’t pull away. He eases round, large warm hand centred over her stomach, tips of his fingers just touching the curve of her breast, and massages lightly till she curves closer and makes small sounds of encouragement.  He knows exactly how to give her this, even if it’s _not a good day_.  He can deal with his own desire later if he has to.  

His kisses get a little deeper, a little more demanding.  He’s playing his fingertips up higher, cupping her breast and teasing lightly, other hand dropping to her thigh.  Beckett shifts against him and opens a little to his searching fingers.

“What  are you doing, Castle?”

“Remedy for cramps.  Guaranteed satisfaction.”

“But...”

“No buts.  Let me do this for you.”  _Let me do something for you.  Anything._

And he shifts his fingers upward on her thigh and starts to caress ever closer in, till she’s moving to his rhythm and he can undo her pants and sneak inside to the damp silk over her and use the fabric to give her delicious friction without ever touching the soft flesh, holding her hard to him and swallowing her moans, bringing her to completion, keeping her enclosed while the shudders subside.  She’s soft and relaxed against him and he could confine her here in the cradle of his body for ever, if she’d only let him.  

Too soon after for Castle's taste Beckett has unfolded herself and started to make comments about leaving.  He'd be happier if that had been phrased as _going home_.  He's not convinced she will.  He considers saying something, but he can't find an unemphatic way to put it and if he gets it wrong she'll not just not listen, she won't let him near her.  So he says nothing, and hopes.

Beckett's in two minds.  She has to leave; the question is where to go.  Home, or archives?  She's soothed and relaxed and she really feels that she might sleep properly again tonight, but there's the nagging in her head ordering her to keep searching, keep hunting.  Surely a proper night's sleep will help her find the answers?  She needs to sleep, can't risk being off her game, can’t risk people noticing anything’s wrong.  Home, then.

It’s the wrong choice.  Sleep came easy, but in the small hours she wakes sweat-soaked and sobbing.  She forces herself not to go in to the archives but there’s no more rest and eventually she’s at her desk clearing the post-case paperwork earlier than is in any way sensible.  It’s getting worse.  The nightmares are more frequent, harder to shake off.  Almost the only time she isn’t dreaming about it is when she’s sleeping with, or dreaming of, Castle. And that’s not making her any happier, either.  She can’t be that dependent on someone else, especially when it’s not serious.  She doesn’t let herself think that _casual_  isn’t really true.  Maybe it never was.

She knows she should ask for help, but she’s too proud to admit her continuing failure and too tightly wrapped to reveal her need.  And who’s going to help, anyway?  The boys?  No.  She can’t display weakness in front of her team.  Montgomery?  Hardly.  He dragged her out of the pit ten years ago and she can’t face his disappointment if he finds her down in its depths again now.  Castle?  No.  Just – no.  He’s not even a cop.  This is all about painstaking, detailed investigation work that just isn’t where he’s at: it’s not a story, not suitable for far-fetched theorising.  And she doesn’t want it splattered all over the pages of the next Nikki Heat novel. 

But if she’s honest with herself, that’s all so much camouflage.  She doesn’t want him there because it would show him too much of what she is, open up too far.  She won’t admit to herself that she’s scared that if she does that, she’ll have to accept that she isn’t so casual after all, that he won’t feel the same, that he can’t cope with the reality of how broken she is under the Detective Beckett carapace, and she is simply not able to deal with any of her demons.  So yet again she pushes everything she feels into a mental lock-box and recreates her shell.


	13. What To Do, What To Say

Castle has a moral dilemma.  He _ought_ to be editing the chapters he’s written before sending at least some of them to Gina, (he’ll keep a few in reserve for when he needs them.  For once, he’s a long way ahead of schedule.)  but he doesn’t like reading them through because they jab at the sore spots in his chest.  He _wants_ to go to the Twelfth and make sure Beckett’s okay.  And a small voice is telling him that if Beckett’s falling down some self-destructive spiral then the _mature_ thing to do would be to tell Montgomery so he can keep an eye on her quietly. 

Except that the mature thing to do is quite certainly likely to get him into trouble.  He doesn’t know how to say to Montgomery _your key detective is back investigating her mother’s case and I think it’s making her ill_ – it would be like talking to his girlfriend’s dad, which has never worked for him in the past.  Even if Beckett isn’t exactly his girlfriend.  And Montgomery will want to know how he, Castle, has found this out, and he, Castle, is not at all sure that explaining how he knowsshe’s having nightmares is going to go down well.  He’s fairly sure that Montgomery wouldn’t actually kill him.  He’s absolutely certain that Ryan and Esposito would take him out back of the precinct and at the very least make it clear that the slightest look of irritation on Beckett’s face will result in his slow and painful death.  They’re rather unsubtly protective.  So.  Well.  Park that for a while.  It’s still morning.  Force himself to edit till lunchtime, and then think about the rest of the day. 

There isn’t much editing to do.  He e-mails three chapters to Black Pawn and then messes around on the internet, reads his fan sites (good for the ego), does a bit of fairly desultory research into different causes of death that might come in handy in future books, and finally realises that it’s close to noon and he can legitimately go to the Twelfth and get everyone lunch, which will at least alleviate the looming boredom.

It’s obviously a slow day.  He’s greeted with the sort of enthusiasm that the boys normally reserve for a particularly grisly case and soon they’re engaged in a discussion about the relative chances of the Twelfth’s baseball team against the Eighteenth’s.  Castle knows relatively nothing about baseball but since he can’t get a word in edgeways it doesn’t really matter.  Beckett’s in with Montgomery, door shut.  From the body language it looks like a fairly heated discussion.

Ten minutes later Beckett exits Montgomery’s office, absolutely furious, goes past all three of them at near-light speed and has picked up her purse and left before anyone can draw breath.  Her lunch is left lying unheeded on her desk.

“Huh?” asks Ryan.  They shrug at each other, confused.

“Dunno.  We’ll get told what we need to know.  Mushrooms, that’s us.”

Montgomery peers round the corner of his office door and waves them all in.  “I’ve told Beckett to take some of her accumulated time, while we’re slow.  She’s built up too much.   We'll call her when the next body drops.  You pair better check that you’re taking yours, too, or I’ll do the same to you.” Ryan and Esposito acquire almost-identical guilty expressions.  Building up leave time isn’t something that normally troubles them.  Then again, they’ve got lives to lead.  They’re never quite sure that Beckett has anything outside the precinct.  They’ve certainly never dared ask.  “You two can go.  Castle, you stay here a moment.”  Montgomery closes the door and sits down heavily, waving at Castle to take a chair. 

Castle’s momentarily panicked, until he remembers that Montgomery is not actually his boss and technically can’t make him do anything.  Well, except ban him from the Twelfth.  Um.  Er.

“Did you know that Beckett hasn’t taken a day off since September?”  He hadn’t actually noticed that, though he hasn’t been in the precinct every day.  “No wonder she looks tired.  I need her on top of her game.  You spend all your time _observing_ her.  What’s eating her?”  Oh shit.  Here’s his moral dilemma up close and personal.  Lie to Montgomery, who will certainly know he’s lying and will then interrogate him until he tells the truth; tell the truth to Montgomery, which will likely result in an even-more-upset Beckett because somehow she’ll know it was him; or say nothing and trust in his excellent poker face.  Except Montgomery’s a fine poker player too and Castle’s waited too long to say anything.

“Castle!” Montgomery’s tone abruptly reminds him that Montgomery didn’t get to be a Captain by being a poor cop.  “What do you know?” 

“I don’t know anything.”

“Don’t give me that bullshit.  If you don’t _know_ , what do you _think_ is going on?  You’re the story teller, now _tell me the story_.”  The whiplash voice is not one that Castle’s ever heard before and it goes straight to his spinal cord.  He can’t even conceive of not answering.  He’s stammering out his surmises before he realises he’s opened his mouth.

“I see,” drawls Montgomery slowly.  “And do I want to know how you worked this out?”  He’s looking almost as menacing as Esposito might.  Castle shakes his head.  “Ah.  Like that, then.”  He suddenly smiles widely.  “Attaboy.  Took you long enough.” 

Castle’s jaw drops.  “Wha…what?”  Is that approval?  He was expecting to be eviscerated, not necessarily metaphorically.

“I don’t have to let you be here.  I never did.  When it comes to my precinct, the Commissioner and the Mayor can’t tell me what to do.  But I’ve been watching you and Beckett strike sparks off each other since you first got walked in as a suspect.  You’re good for her, which is good for my clear-up rate.  The day that isn’t true, you’ll be out.”  Ah.  That’s laying it on the line.  Montgomery’s still speaking.  “Now. You go and do whatever you have to, to stop her killing herself over her mother’s case.  I don’t care how you manage it, or how long it takes you, but stop her falling down this rabbit hole.  Don’t screw up.  I’ll be watching.”

It’s like the worst interview he’s ever had with some girl’s parents, although at least this time he’s won approval, which has not previously been the case.  He supposes he’d better do what he’s told.  He walks slightly shakily out of Montgomery’s office to see the boys staring hopefully at him.  Um.  Time to bluff.  Fortunately they aren’t particularly good poker players.

“He just wanted to ask about the book sales, and tell me not to be around messing up the paperwork if there’s no new body.  So will you call me as soon as one drops?  Otherwise I might have to do some work on the next book.”  Ryan and Esposito look unimpressed.  “Please, guys.  You can’t leave me to my publishers’ tender mercies.” 

“Okay.  But you owe us.”

“Sure.  Sure I do.”  He leaves, hurriedly, snagging Beckett’s forgotten lunch as he goes. 

Huh.  His estimation of Montgomery takes several steps upward.  He’d thought he was so clever, leaning on the Mayor and the Commissioner to let him follow Beckett around all those months ago, and it turns out that those three conniving cronies had played him.  Well,  _shit_ .

* * *

Beckett’s sitting in Central Park, where the miserable November weather just about matches her mood.  She’s furious with Montgomery, and more so with herself.  If she’d just remembered to take a day every now and then there would have been nothing to give him this excuse.  And now she’s been forced to take days off and how can she keep looking for an answer if she can’t even go to the precinct?  She slumps down on the bench dispiritedly.  Now what? 

When miserable, do something that she loves.  She wanders slowly through Central Park towards the Met, in no particular hurry.  Why hurry?  There’s nowhere she has to be.  She’ll go see the Russian artefacts, some of the pictures, seeing as she’s got nothing else to do.  Maybe she’ll go to a Russian café later, eat the familiar, comforting, food.  She hasn’t had lunch, and doesn’t care.  Her phone’s beeping but she doesn’t care about that either.  If she’s forced to a day off, then she will _have_ a day off.  She switches it off without even looking to see who it was.

The Met is as good as always and the pictures just as glorious.  Beckett meanders aimlessly through the galleries, stopping and starting as the mood takes her.  The art soothes her anger and by the time it closes and she’s ushered out she’s ready to eat and go home.  She makes her way up to Hudson Heights to buy some proper Russian pelmeni and a sweet pirozhki  and takes them back to her apartment.

She’s licking the last traces of apricot jam off her fingers when it occurs to her that she didn’t put her phone back on.  Oops.  When she switches it on there’s a number of missed calls, all from Castle.  Oh.  Yes.  He had been in the precinct when she left, hadn’t he?  There’s also a text. _Got your lunch.  Pick it up from the loft?_   She sends back _I ate, thanks_ , _I’m good_. 

* * *

 

Castle spent the afternoon alternately trying to ring an unresponsive Beckett and fretting until even Alexis got exasperated and told him to _just have a drink and calm down already_. 

"Dad," she says firmly.   "Detective Beckett can take care of herself.  She'll call you when she's not busy."  He doesn't think that's soon enough.  He's got what amounts to permission to try to fix things, albeit from Montgomery not Beckett, and he's desperate to start.  Even though he hasn't worked out how.

When he gets her text he's relieved that she actually ate but a bit hurt that he didn't get a chance to cook for her.  He'd wanted to invite her over for dinner with him and Alexis.  Martha's out again, enjoying her re-acquired sweetheart.  He's not at all sure he wanted to know that.  Martha being out would normally be a pleasant change (he loves his mother, but she's a bit full on sometimes and he needs a little space) but it does mean that he isn't going anywhere.  Sixteen is too young for Alexis to be left alone at night.  Especially all night.

He doesn't realise how hard he's frowning until Alexis curls her arms around his neck and tells him, "You know, you could just invite her over here."  The more he thinks about it, the better that sounds.  Still.

"But pumpkin, I'm spending the evening with you."

"Dad.  You're staring into space and wherever you are, it's not here.  I've got an English paper to write.  Phone her.  And I don't want to know anything more. Just keep the noise down. "

That's awkward.  He's never not paid full attention to Alexis before.  But amazingly, she doesn't seem to mind.  It almost sounds like encouragement.  And since even at sixteen Alexis has a far better grasp of reality than he does at forty-let’s-not-count-any-more he takes her advice as soon as she's scampered up the stairs out of earshot.

"Beckett," he says hopefully when she picks up, "why don't you come over?"

Beckett is comfortably ensconced in her couch in sweats and, courtesy of being grounded (grounded!  She hasn’t been grounded since she was seventeen.) by Montgomery, really not in any mood for company or moving out her door.  She wants to think in peace.  "Why, Castle?”  She doesn’t think going over is a safe idea.   The last time it got out of control and not even physical reality stopped it.  “I really don’t feel like coming out tonight.  It’s too late.  'Specially if this is you complaining about being bored again."

"Because I can't come over there.  And I want to see you."

"I want doesn't get," Beckett raps out smartly.  "So no, I’m not coming out."

"Aww.  No fun. When did you become Miss Manners, anyway?"  He sounds genuinely disappointed.  

She knows she's not just being difficult because she’s angry she’s been put on leave, but to prove to herself that this is not turning into something deeper, that she can still believe it’s casual.  That she doesn’t need it.  Him.  Even though she does.  She throws her personal Labrador a bone.  "Why don't you come round tomorrow.  Montgomery's making me take some accumulated days until a body drops."

It's not quite what he wanted.  But it's a lot better than _No_ would have been.  "Okay.  I'll come round in the morning. See you tomorrow."

"Night, Castle."


	14. When Tomorrow Comes

When Castle knocks next morning, not early, at first there's no answer.  It's not till he knocks again, much harder, that there's the sound of movement from inside.  Beckett opens the door in such a way that he can't see her till he's fully inside.  It's not...pretty.  Not that Beckett is ever anything other than beautiful, but it looks like if she slept at all - which he strongly doubts - it wasn't restful. 

He wants to pick her up and sit with her cuddled on his lap and soothe her back to sleep again, safely in his arms.  That, however, is entirely too likely to be counterproductive.  Revealing weakness isn’t a Beckett trait.  Admitting to it, still less so.  So showing that he’s noticed something’s wrong is going to be a short route off a high cliff, just like it was at lunch a week ago.  All showing concern then got him was shut up and sent home.  _Pretend you’re casual, Rick._   He has to say something normal before he loses all common sense and starts to ask far too much.

"You have a bad night, Beckett?  Zombies after you again?  Maybe you should change your books to a better quality of literature.  Mine, for example."  There's a very slight attempt at an eye-roll.   He steers Beckett, who has clearly used up all energy in managing to get her eyes open and feet under her, to her couch and takes himself off to the kitchen to find kettle, coffee and creamer.  When he turns back she's propped up between the arm and the back cushion with her eyes closed.  She looks diminished, shrouded in a woolly robe that covers anything interesting, and he's reminded of how she was when he came round with cupcakes and this whole thing began.  It seems a very long time ago, for only a fortnight.  He adds a coffeepot to what he’s doing.  He doesn’t think that one cup will be anything like sufficient for Beckett.

The pungent smell of strong coffee kick-starts Beckett’s brain and allows her to pry her eyelids open.  What’s Castle doing here?  Oh.  That’s right.  She’d invited him round today.  Urgh.  She must have let him in on autopilot: she certainly doesn’t remember consciously choosing to do it.  She clings to the mug as if it’s the last life raft on the Titanic and allows the aroma to seep into her head and the caffeine into her system.    First mugful finished, she’s capable of focusing on the nearby coffeepot and pouring more, though she’s alarmingly wobbly and only just avoids spilling it.  Castle removes the pot from her and sets it safely down.  He’s wearing a worried expression.  She concentrates on inhaling enough coffee to be able to form a coherent sentence.

“Wha’ time‘s it?”

“It’s eleven-thirty, Beckett.”

That’s not good.  She swallows another few mouthfuls of coffee and tries to process that it’s almost lunchtime.  Finally she looks up and smiles rather weakly.  “Thanks for making coffee.  Sorry I wasn’t ready when you got here.”

“ ‘S okay, Beckett.  Always wanted to see what you wear to bed.” He grins evilly. “So far you haven’t worn anything.”  She musters a glare.  Castle’s deeply relieved to see it.  “So what _do_ you wear to bed?  Silk?  Lace?  Flannel pyjamas?  What’s under the robe?”  The glare increases in intensity.  It’s working: Beckett’s rapidly returning to normal.  He’ll leave getting explanations for now: she’ll just clam up.  Better to push till she starts to snark.

“That’s for me to know.”  Though there are some very provocative bits of silk and lace in her drawer, should she be in the mood.

“But I need to know too.  How can I write Nikki without knowing what she wears to bed?  Although I don’t think she’s a flannel pyjamas type.  More black satin.  C’mon.  Tell me.”

“Black satin?  What a cliché.  Are you writing for Playboy suddenly?  Do something radical, Castle.  Maybe she wears shorts and a ratty T-shirt.”  She’s right back with it.  He makes a deliberately disappointed face.

“Nah.  She wouldn’t.  She’s kinda slutty, remember?  Gotta be something sexy.”

“You’ll just need to use your imagination.  I’m not fuelling your dirty little fantasies about your characters.”

“How about fuelling dirty reality? Much more fun.”  Beckett makes a disgusted noise and stands up.

“Help yourself to more coffee.  I’ll be ready shortly.”  It’s not an invitation, disappointingly.

“If you need help washing your back, Beckett, just call.  I’m right here.”  There’s a firm click as the door shuts behind her.

Sitting in Beckett’s apartment knowing that she’s naked in the shower and he’s _not there_ is, Castle feels, the adult equivalent of the experiment that asks a child not to eat the candy set right in front of them.  His over-active imagination is providing him with his very own home movie of what they might be doing.  It’s probably a good idea if he gets this under control before Beckett comes back, otherwise they might not be going anywhere.  Fortunately Beckett’s reasonably brisk and reappears in jeans and sweater with her hair clipped back in a damp and rather messy tail that he wants to undo and run his fingers through.  (does she _know_ what looking like she’s been rolling on pillows does to him?)  Unusually, she’s wearing flat ballet pumps, which, Castle calculates, (he’s an expert in the geometry of seduction) will leave her nicely at a height to be tucked into a comfortable arm around her shoulders. 

“You know, you’re really quite small.  Those heels you wear are very deceptive.  Isn’t that cheating?”  He elicits a growl.  “Where are we going?  Will I have to lift you up so you can see?”  There’s another noise of annoyance and he decides to quit while his nose is still intact.

“I’d like to go to the Cloisters.  You wanna?”  Actually, she doesn’t want to go to the Cloisters or anywhere else that isn’t the archive room at the precinct.  But she can’t: Montgomery’s kyboshed that.  So she might as well go somewhere else.

Why not, muses Castle?  It’s peaceful, and at this time of year there aren’t likely to be too many tourists.  Besides which, he’s quite fond of European art, though he’d be prepared to develop a fondness for almost anything that enabled him to spend most of a day with Beckett without it involving a body.  Thinking of which, he’s been alone with her for nearly an hour and this is the first moment she’s been awake enough for him to consider that kissing her is a good plan.  It’s an irresistible thought.  So he doesn’t even try to resist.  Half a second later he’s tugged her into his arms, tipped her chin up and is happily kissing her.  She emits a muffled little noise that isn’t really identifiable as anything other than pleased and rises up on her toes to respond.  A minute after, she’s on his lap on the couch (that was a smooth move, he thinks) and curling into him in a particularly appealing way.

"You sure you wanna go out, Beckett?"  He sneaks a hand up her back, under the soft sweater, over smooth skin.  No tank?  Ohhh.  _Let's stay here._ "It's cold out.  Lemme keep you warm right here."  He kisses her some more, persuasively.

Beckett shuffles her thoughts together.  Stay in, go out.  Go to bed, go to the Cloisters.  (She has no illusions about what will happen if they stay in.)  But if they stay in she might end up confessing the nightmares, and she can't do that.

"Go out."  Soft fingertips curl round her ribcage and she briefly regrets the decision.  But it's too much, too close, too emotional.  There’s a whole armada of questions hanging in the air: she’s amazed that Castle hasn’t asked any of them.  He’s obviously learned a lot in interrogation, including how to wait for a psychologically significant moment.  Such as might arrive if she’s…relaxed.

She needs to stop this now, before she’s seduced into saying too much, before this creeping closeness starts to become a habit.  She counts back: today, not yesterday (but it could have been), day before, before that…  Too much, too often, too close.  And here she is, snuggled up with him again, behaving just as if it’s a real, serious relationship.  Inviting him round today was a mistake.  Letting him kiss her in this we-can-do-this-all-the-time fashion was another one.  _Time to back off. Casual, Kate._   It’s entirely unfair to behave as if this means anything.  And he doesn’t want meaningful any more than she tells herself she doesn’t.

She wriggles out his arms and stands up, decisively stepping clear to grab her coat.  “Let’s go.”

* * *

 

Castle’s thinking furiously behind an amiable expression, all the way to Fort Tryon Park.  Very subtly, something’s changed.  Beckett is keeping just a little further away, physically and, he feels, mentally.  He thinks she’s spooked, but he doesn’t know why.  He hasn’t given so much as a hint that he knows what’s going on with her.  But.  But Beckett frequently demonstrates an astounding ability to read his thoughts, and he supposes that familiarity with his insatiable curiosity has given her the perfectly correct idea that he’s waiting for a moment when she lets her guard down to ask questions she won’t want to answer.  So of course she’s put it up.  Now what?  Well.  She can’t be at the precinct till another body drops, so she can’t be in archives, so maybe there’s no real need to do anything right now.  Back off till she moves forward, give her room, let her make the next move.  Yes.  He doesn't like it, but he'll let her lead.  At least until he has to intervene because she's making herself ill, which on current performance will not be very long away.  He’ll think about the nightmares later.  And so he doesn’t put his hand on the small of her back when they go in, doesn’t sling an arm around her shoulders, doesn’t walk too close.  Doesn’t touch.

Surprisingly, she’s most interested in the stained glass roundels.  He’d have thought she’d like the art, or the Unicorn Tapestries, or even the garden.  It seems that the construction, moulding together delicate pieces, held together by thin lead, appeals to her.  It’s not so surprising, after all, given that she fits together little pieces of evidence that make a picture which catches killers. 

By closing time Castle expects that they’ll go separate ways.  He’s not surprised.  Beckett’s been pulling away all day and though she says pleasant words about how nice the day’s been he can see the need to escape beating in her eyes, the flicked cop glances everywhere but at him, the lapses in attention.  As he watches her walk away he wonders how he’s going to move this forward if she keeps stepping back.  He trails home, depressed by his complete lack of progress.

Beckett trails home too.  She’s got what she wanted but it isn’t making her happy.  Backing off is the right thing to do – she won’t raise expectations she won’t meet – but she already misses the comfort of Castle’s large frame.  Stupid, to be so dependent on external support.  A couple of days away from him won’t hurt.  She can give him up any time she likes.  She can. 

That night is worse than any yet.  The autopsy pictures from her mother’s case file are dancing in her head, and when the dream replays Raglan appearing at their door to give them the news he tells her she’ll never solve it, will always be a failure, shouldn’t be a detective, won’t be able to do the job.  She stays awake the rest of the night, huddled on her couch, pretending to herself she’s reading.  When dank November light replaces the streetlights she’s semi-dozing, exhausted, scared to sleep.  She spends the day recreating every scrap of information she can remember from the archive files, consciously blocking out anything else.  Especially solid, comforting writers.  If she can’t go in, she can work on the case at home.  Then each time they’re slow at the precinct she can take a day of her leave, which will keep Montgomery off her back, and carry on.  It’s the perfect solution.   She’ll copy the remaining data next time a body drops.  She’s sure that won’t be too long.

And sure enough, the next evening one quite literally does.  It would have helped, she feels, if she’d got more than four hours sleep across each of the last two nights.  She avoids being alone with Castle: that way he can’t say anything, though she sees him looking through the make-up; he can’t touch her; and she can’t give in to the insane desire just to tell him everything and then fall into bed with him.  She can do this.  She can step back.   She’s managed for two days.  One more, to prove she can.

Beckett sends Castle home, telling him that she’s setting up the murder board and she doesn’t need him helping, he needs to go home to Alexis.  She sets the boys to following up phone records and security footage, both of which require them to be out of the bullpen for at least two hours.  They’re on it immediately.  This is her best chance: as soon as they’re all safely gone, she’s down in archives copying as much as she can manage without anyone noticing what she’s taking home. The dust makes her sneeze, but she muffles it in half a dozen tissues so that she doesn’t leave a trace of her presence.

She’s back at her desk with the copies safely in her oversize purse, deliberately brought in against the hope that she’d get this chance, when the boys come back with their results.  She spends some time with them, concealing her desperation to leave and get her data back home, but finally they’ve exhausted all the possibilities for tonight and she can go.

She turns down a drink with them, but that’s nothing new, they might be in bars every other night but Beckett tends only to go out once in a way.  So they won’t suspect anything.

When she reaches her apartment she spends more than half the night arranging the data, and the short hours she does try to sleep are broken by familiar, lacerating nightmares.


	15. Allow That Man

In the break room next morning, Castle’s looking at Beckett with a mixture of concern and raw desire.  He hasn't seen her outside the precinct in almost three days and she looks like she’s hardly  slept for any of it.  He should be angry that she blanked him out like that, left him hanging, but he’s had to give her some space voluntarily or he’d have been forced into it anyway, probably for much longer than this.  But he doesn’t have to like it.  He can see that she's holding her eyes open by sheer force of will, and the only reason she isn't collapsed into him, he thinks, is that this is the precinct and she can't show weakness in front of the team.  When he reaches out to touch her shoulder in comfort she looks ready to break down.  But then the case takes over.

In the car Beckett's snarky with tiredness and the usual edge of sardonic humour is missing.  He's surprised she can drive, given how exhausted she looks.  And then Alexis rings, wanting not Castle, but Detective Beckett.  Alexis wants to meet Beckett without him, tonight.  Castle is not at all happy about this development; Alexis should be talking to him.  _He’s_ her parent.  He’s curious and jealous and just a bit hurt.  First Alexis is keeping secrets from him but sharing them with Beckett, and now, inadvertently, she's spoilt his plans to go round to Beckett's tonight.  He feels three days is quite long enough to leave Beckett to herself.  He doesn’t want to give her voluntary space any more.  She can always send him home if she doesn’t like it.

Castle 's soft heart has him listening to a tear-jerking story from a call girl, who’s sitting miserably in the precinct as she tries to work out what to do now.  He’d rather be helping Beckett (he means watching to make sure she doesn’t collapse), but it’s just not in his nature to leave someone that unhappy alone.  Beckett spots with some relief that he's distracted and takes the opportunity to spend another stolen half-hour in the archives copying as much more of her mother’s file as she can before anyone notices she’s missing from her desk.  She's nearly got it all.  One more foray, and then she won't need to go again, she'll have everything she needs at home.  No more reason to be in the precinct late at night, no more risk that someone will pick up on what she’s doing.  If she keeps it tidily put away when she’s not working on it then no-one will know.  It’s not like many people come round, anyway.  Certainly no-one visits unexpectedly. 

As she’s leaving, Castle's clearly seriously disturbed that she's meeting Alexis and won't let him come.  She can’t imagine why he’s so worried, Alexis has more sense in one eyelash than most adults have in their entire bodies.   Still, it wasn't the way she’d planned to spend the evening, though clearly Little Castle needs some advice.  She'd rather not be doing this, it's just another tie to draw her in.  But she can't refuse.

She thinks that tonight is a good night to invite Castle round, she’s proved she doesn’t need him every day, can give him up if she has to, and even if Alexis needs a couple of hours it won't be particularly late when they're done.  So once she's out the precinct she texts him and says she'll call him when they’re finished, as long as he doesn't ask anything about what she and Alexis discussed.

Castle goes home boiling with curiosity and alarm about what Alexis couldn’t talk to him about.  He tries to write, but Nikki and Rook won’t co-operate and the  words just will not come.  He ends up playing Solitaire on his laptop, and when Alexis gets back he hasn’t won once.  It feels like a metaphor for the week.  It’s some relief when Alexis tells him all about it and it’s not a disaster, just her soft heart.  She’s still his little girl.

Beckett doesn't call, she eventually texts, coinciding with Alexis disappearing upstairs to bed.  All it says is _Come over?_   He sends back _When Mother gets here_ , and waits with increasing frustration for the three-quarters of an hour that takes.  When Martha arrives he barely stops to say goodbye, tells her not to wait up.  Maybe this time he'll manage to extract some explanations.

He texts Beckett from the cab and when he taps quietly on her door (it's late and waking the neighbours is hardly discreet) it opens at once.  Contrary to his wilder hopes, Beckett is not swathed in some silky piece of flimsy nightwear, but in some rather ratty sweats that look old enough to have been in college with her.  Still, despite the lack of effort, she looks utterly adorable.  She also looks utterly worn out.  So instead of his first instinct, which is to pin her against the door and kiss her and touch her till she’s half-undone and then fall into bed with her, he hugs her gently and walks them back to the couch where he can tuck her into his lap.  He thinks, a little guiltily, that exhausted Beckett is certainly a lot easier to keep close.  She’d never put up with this display of affection if she weren’t so tired.  Sex, yes.  Smart remarks to keep people – him – at a distance, definitely.  Affection, not so much.  But as good as sex with Beckett was – is – he gets almost as much of a rush from being allowed just to cuddle her like this, see her vulnerability, be let into her world.  He settles her more comfortably and enjoys the moment.  Letting her set the pace has paid off.  _She’s_ invited _him_.  She hasn’t invited him here in the evening before.  Definitely a step forward.

Beckett knows that she’s being less than fair to Castle.  She’s asked him round because she’s exhausted and simply wants the comfort of his big, warm body, but she’s too tired to play nice.  Still, he doesn’t seem to mind.  She curls in tighter and notices just how much he doesn’t seem to mind.  And now that she’s proved to herself that she can do without him, she can go back to partners-with-benefits with a clear conscience.  It’s not like he’s pushing for something more complicated.  He seems just as happy with a casual now-and-then as she is. Well.  Not exactly now-and-then.  More like as-often-as-they-feel-like.   If he’d been looking for something deeper he’d have made more of a fuss about not seeing her over the last three days.  He’s not one to hide his feelings.  So that’s all sorted out very satisfactorily.  She’s not going to hurt anyone, and everybody’s happy with the way it is.  No harm, no foul.  It’s all okay.  She murmurs contentedly and pulls him down to kiss, intending it to be slow and easy. 

It doesn’t work out that way.  When her lips touch his and his embrace tightens instantly, slow and easy disappears, replaced by hard and fast and hot.  She’s right there in it, tiredness falling away under the shock of immediate, intense arousal.  He yanks off her sweatshirt to suck on her breasts and she’s frantically undoing his shirt and when he pushes her down on her back on the couch she takes him with her so she doesn’t have to stop kissing him or touching him or lose the hot weight that’s fitting perfectly between her legs.  She rolls her hips up as he presses down and somehow they’re already naked and he’s sliding into her and it’s so fast they didn’t even make it to the bedroom.  She can hear him gasping _Kate, Kate_ as she’s trying to get even closer and then it all goes white and then dark.

When she wakes up there’s a comforter over her and Castle’s sitting watching her.  She’s in her bed, which is unexpected.

“How’d I get here?” she asks muzzily.  It doesn’t seem to make sense.  Last thing she remembers was fast hard orgasm on the couch.  Given which, why is Castle fully dressed and sitting on a chair in her bedroom?  The other times, he’s liked to snuggle.

“I put you there.  You wouldn’t wake up, Kate.”  Oh.  That can’t be good.

 “What time is it?”  She squints at the clock.  It’s nearly one in the morning.  When did Castle come round?  Before midnight, that’s for sure.  Has she been out for almost an hour?  Oh shit.  This is really not good at all.

Kate’s looking up at him with suddenly-scared eyes.  “What happened, Castle?”

“I don’t know.  You just wouldn’t wake up.  So I thought you’d be better off in bed and then I waited to make sure you were okay.”  He means _till I was sure you were going to wake up_.  That little episode was more than slightly terrifying.  “When did you last eat, Kate?”  He can see her thinking for far longer than is comfortable.  “Today?”

“Think so.”  It doesn’t sound convincing.  He knows that there had been breakfast: he’d bought the bear claw.  It’s after that he isn’t sure.

“What about sleeping?”

She doesn’t want to answer that.  This is Castle in parental inquisition mode, though, and she isn’t going to be allowed to get away with silence.  “I’ve not been sleeping so good.”

“Kate,” he starts, and stops.  He needs to be very careful here.  _Remember, Rick, she doesn’t want a mother_.  “Kate.  That was really scary.  You can’t do this to yourself.  You have to eat and sleep.  If that” – whatever _that_ was – “ happens at the precinct you’ll be put on medical suspension.  Promise me you’ll eat.”  He knows he sounds pathetic.  But she was far too easy to pick up and carry.  He’s no Schwarznegger to lift serious weights.  She looks mutinous. “If you won’t promise I’ll need to tell Montgomery.” 

“Okay.” It’s begrudged, but she’s agreed.  It makes it a little better.  “Can you stay?” It almost sounds as if she needs him.  And now it’s a lot better.

“Sure.”  He slips in behind her in his boxers and insinuates one arm over her waist, the other under her neck, so that she’s wrapped safely in against him.  He hears her breathing change and slow and drifts off himself.

In the morning, by unspoken mutual agreement, they don’t talk about it.  But when Castle gets to the precinct Beckett eats her bear claw, and later the lunch he brings her, albeit with a definite air of if-I-must resignation.  She’s let him feed her, take care of her when she needed it.  She asked him to.  He’ll count that as a victory.

Beckett sends Castle home at the end of the day, promising she’ll eat dinner.  When she says it, she means it: she’ll eat right after she’s copied the last few documents from archives.  It takes her longer to get to archives than she expects: too many people around late on.  Don’t criminals, or cops, stop for dinner these days?  By the time she’s finished and home, it’s pushing eleven and she’s not hungry any more.  She ignores the faint flare of guilt.  She’ll have breakfast.  One slip won’t hurt.  She’ll make up for it tomorrow.  She starts to arrange the final parts of evidence in her new file and absorbs herself in theorising.  It’s far too late for good sense to have intervened when she finally stops, and the dreams are back again.  Around and around, down the rabbit-hole again.  Doesn’t matter if she’s asleep or awake, it’s always there.

Once the perp - it was the call girl who spun Castle a sob-story - has been taken down for processing, Beckett gets the paperwork underway.  She wants it finished so that she can ask Montgomery whether she can take some more of her leave till they’re next needed.  She doesn’t think that’ll be a problem, based on the previous discussion.  Castle’s hovering hopefully, displaying all the signs of wanting her to join him and Alexis for dinner at the loft.  She wonders vaguely if Alexis has told him what the advice she wanted was about yet.  It could be mildly uncomfortable if she hasn’t.

Castle wants to make sure Beckett actually eats.  He doesn’t remember seeing her have lunch, so he’s going to ensure that she gets some calories by feeding her.  And now that he’s had the story from Alexis, there shouldn’t be any awkward moments.  He’s happily planning a nice fattening meal involving his favourite lasagne recipe while he waits for Beckett to take a break.

When she looks up and stretches her shoulders, Castle finally gets round to asking if she’ll come over for dinner.  She’s agreeable, but tells him she has to see Montgomery first, so she’ll come over after that.  He raises an eyebrow and she knows that he’ll be poking his curious nose into that later.  Still.  She’s taking a break, to get some rest.  He can’t complain about that.  He wanders off home as she goes to Montgomery’s office.

Beckett taps on Montgomery’s door and is waved in.

“Yes, Beckett?”

“I’d like to take a couple of days’ leave, now that the case is finished.  All the paperwork is filed.”

Montgomery looks at her penetratingly.  “Well, Beckett, I’m glad to see that you’ve recognised that you need a break.  I thought I’d have to order you to take some more time.  Going to do anything in particular?”

“No, sir.  Just have a break at home.”  _And keep on searching for my mom’s killer._

“Okay.  We’ll call you back in when we need you.”         

Esposito and Ryan aren’t so easy to satisfy.

“You?  You’re _taking_ leave?  Beckett, you never take leave.”

“And look where it got me last week.  Montgomery’s made it clear that if I don’t take it, he’ll force me to.“  She puts enough irritation into her words to be convincing.  “I don’t like being ordered out.  Besides, this way I get to miss the paperwork.” 

That rings true.  Beckett never likes being told what to do.  It’s part of what makes her such a fine detective.  It’s also what makes her such a hard-ass when they’re working a case.

“Leaving us with all the paperwork?  That’s not fair.  You owe us.”

“Says who?  I do twice as much paperwork as you do – possibly because I’m not comparing my Saturday night social life all the time.  Speaking of social lives, Espo, did you find that dating site yet?”

Esposito twitches guiltily.  Ryan seizes on it.  “Whoa.  You really did, didn’t you?  Well, spill.  C’mon, I want to know what you’ve been doing.  Pictures, the lot.”  Esposito glares at Beckett.  Sometimes having a really great detective around is an absolute pain in the ass.  Like now.   He tries to think of something to get a little payback,  But he can’t find a thing.  He wishes that Beckett had a normal life that they could rag on her about.  Far as he knows, she doesn’t.

Ryan’s still running his mouth wanting details.  Esposito gives monosyllabic answers and promises himself that if he ever does find some dirt on Beckett she will pay for this.


	16. Won't Miss Much

Dinner turns out to be fun.  The food is excellent – she has to hand it to Castle: he really is a good cook – and she’s even tempted to seconds.  Alexis has told Castle what she was keeping secret, and harmony is clearly restored.    Beckett barely has a chance to speak, since the Castle chatter is in full spate.  It seems that Alexis is thinking about Oxford, England, for college.  Predictably, Castle is horrified that his baby is talking about leaving.  It’s quite sweet, really.

“Well, you know, Castle, I went 3,000 miles to college.  Oxford isn’t much further.  What’s the problem?  Then I went to Kiev for a while as part of the program.  It’s good to get away from your parents when you’re at college.”  She smiles mischievously.  “That way they can’t see what you’re doing.”  Castle chokes and he’s still spluttering and coughing when Beckett points out that freedom to experiment with all sorts of things is part of growing up.  “Your look, personality, interests, boys” – Castle emits a strangled squawk that might have been _over my dead body_  if he’d got any breath to speak _–_ “alcohol.”  Since he’s now purple in the face Beckett thinks she’s wound him up enough for one meal.  “But seriously, Alexis, if you want to talk about being at college away from home, call me.” 

Dinner over, washing up put in the dishwasher, Alexis disappears claiming homework.  Beckett is not wholly sure about this.  She’d seen Alexis glancing between them all through dinner and she is more than somewhat suspicious that Alexis, being as sentimentally romantic as any other teen and very eager to do anything she feels is in the best interests of her father, is trying a bit of matchmaking.  Still.  Since they’re both only in it casually, Alexis can think and plot what she likes.  It won’t make any difference.

“That was unfair, Beckett,” Castle sulks.  “You can’t gang up with Alexis  against me like that.  You’re supposed to be on my side.”

“She’s growing up. She won’t be here forever.  You’ve gotta let her fly, or she’ll leave anyway.” 

“But.. boys?  And alcohol?  No way.”

“Given your history, are you in any position to talk?  Alexis is way more sensible than you were.  I don’t think she’ll be stealing police horses naked or signing people’s chests.”  Castle looks wounded.

“I don’t do that anymore.  I’m reformed.”  Beckett snorts.  “I am.  Really.  I’ve never stolen another police horse.  And I haven’t signed any chests since you arrested me.  So there.”

 _Oops_ , thinks Castle.  _Please don’t let Beckett pick up on that last statement._   Fortunately it seems to have passed her by.  Time for some distraction of his own.  Might as well borrow the Beckett technique.

“You wanna coffee?”  Beckett considers.  It’s not that late, and though she wants to get back to her home-grown homicide file, she doesn’t have to go just yet.  Seeing as she’s taking leave tomorrow, she’ll have plenty of time with it even if she does stay a bit longer.

“Sure.”  She follows Castle to the kitchen where he’s fussing with a machine that probably came from the Starship Enterprise.  She manages with a kettle and old-fashioned coffeepot.  Still, the coffee tastes wonderful.  He waves her to the study. 

“So, Beckett, what did you want from Montgomery?”

“Just some leave.”  There’s a hint of _none-of-your-business_ in her tone.

“ _You’re_ taking leave?  You never do that.  What’re you going to do with it?”

“This and that, see some exhibitions, get some things done at home.”  It’s not a lie.  It’s just not the whole truth.  He doesn’t need to know _what_ things.  Or that the exhibitions are from the autopsy on her mother, and the photos of the scene.  He’s watching her carefully, as if he’s assessing her answers for truth.  But she’s been through more interrogations than he ever will and she is perfectly confident that she can beat this one.  “And if I don’t take some time now I’ll be made to take it, again.  So I might as well do it now while it’s slow.”  Castle radiates approval.  He’s so easy for her to fool.  It’s why she wins at poker.  She stands and stretches.  Time to finish her coffee and go.

“Not going already, Beckett?”

“Mphm.  ‘S getting late.”  Castle glances at his watch and back to her.  He thinks there’s enough time to do something a little more enjoyable.  And maybe elicit some answers while he’s at it.  He doesn’t believe a word of what she just said.

“Not really.  Stay a bit longer.” His voice drops lower.  “I want to know about what you did at college.  Sounds like you were a bit…adventurous.  What did you get up to, Beckett?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?  You’ll just have to wonder.”  She had been. Very adventurous.  Right up to the point it all went wrong.  Cover that thought.  “But college was very” – she pauses deliberately – “ _informative._ I learnt a lot.”  That’s got a reaction.  Castle’s eyes are wide.   But he’s no slouch at this sort of discussion himself.

“Any lessons you’d like to share, Beckett?” He’s moving in.  “Old lecture notes that you need to review?”  He removes her coffee cup to a handy shelf.  “Help with your revision?”  He’s backed her against the wall.  “Place to study?”  He leans in.  “Practical exams?”  And then he’s kissing her, pinning her against the wall with his body, letting her know just what sort of _practical exam_ he means.  He feels so good.  She widens her stance to let him press harder just where she wants him, smiles in satisfaction when she hears him groan.  He moves round to tease the sensitive spots on her neck, hands untucking her shirt from her pants and gliding up her back, feathering round her ribs at the edge of her bra.  She’s not slow to return the favour.

By the time he walks them into his bedroom her shirt’s open and he knows she’s barely able to think. But when she skims a hand across him he’s half undone and has to stop moving and pull her in and kiss her and stroke her till she’s begging for more. 

"What did you learn, Beckett?  What lessons do you like to practice?  What  should I do with you if you don't learn them well enough?"  _Ohhh yes_.  She hasn't played this game for a long time.  He hears the catch in her breath and files away that Beckett likes a little more than plain vanilla.  He can work with that.  Oh yes.

 The words take her to a place that’s a little dark and a little edgy and she thinks that those sort of games should maybe wait for a night when they’re definitely alone so that the noise won’t matter. Then she stops thinking of anything except the pressure of his hands and mouth and the weight of his body against her, the words in her brain and all the delicious possibilities that he’s laying out before her.

He's brought them both to moaning satisfaction when he whispers in her ear, "What're you really going to do on your leave?"

"Told you," she murmurs lazily, still half-dazed, "stuff at home."

"Don't believe you."  It's less of a whisper, more of a taunt.  He's stroking her stomach in wicked little patterns.

"Don't care. 'S true."

"I c'n help.   I wanna."

Circles and wicked touch or not, she's waking up out her post-sex haze rather faster than she'd like.  "Don't need any help.  Anyway, you'd be bored.  Can't see you wielding a vacuum without complaint."

"I'm excellent at applying suction."  Beckett groans, unimpressed.  "What are you really going to do?"

"Polish my collection of toyboys."

There's a growl of indignation.  "You don't need toyboys."  His fingers slip lower and she moves against him.  "You've got me."  He strokes downward and she gasps and then he pulls her in closer and she wraps around him and he's back inside her,  rhythm slow and easy, tongue mimicking that same cadence as he presses her into the sheets.  He's taken her right up to the edge when he asks again, "What are you really going to do?" and this time she doesn't answer at all, just gasps out _get me off, Castle_ and when he does she pulls away from him and tells him it's time she went home.  

That didn't go so well.  He's left sitting up, watching her keenly as she dresses, not looking at him at all, suddenly wrapped tightly in don't-push-me and reserve.  He’s gone too far.   _Way to go, Rick._ Well.  Nothing to do but let her leave.  No law says he can’t go over tomorrow when Alexis is in school.  She’s searching out her heels.  He pulls on a robe and follows her out through his study, but before she can open the door he touches her shoulder and when she pauses turns her gently round to hold her waist.  He gazes down and his face isn’t flirtatious or laughing or intent on sex any more.  “Kate.  Don’t shut me out.”  _I know what you’re hiding.  Please.  Let me help._

He’s clearly sorry, but it doesn’t cure her annoyance. 

He wants to tell her he knows exactly what she’ll be doing, wants to offer any help he can, lay his substantial resources at her feet.  He also knows that she’ll refuse, just like last time.  He needs a strategy to catch her in the act, and then he can legitimately get involved.  He hopes.  He watches her leave, coated in irritation, and wishes he knew how to get it right.  How to get her right.

* * *

 

Hm.  That was a little – intense.  Why’s Castle pushing like that?   Curiosity is one thing but that was a pretty serious attempt to get answers.  It wasn’t just his normal Elephant’s Child behaviour.  Regardless of how childish he might be, Castle’s actually very sharp and once he gets on the trail of a mystery he doesn’t tend to let go.  He clearly wasn’t happy about being put off.  This could be a problem.  For the first time she begins to wonder if  _casual_ is really where he’s at.  Put his behaviour tonight together with last night, the way he kept trying to get her to admit what was wrong over lunch a week ago, and she’s starting to see a different picture develop.  She’s not sure how she feels about that.  It wouldn’t be right, would run counter to her personal integrity, if she stuck with partners-with-benefits if he’s thinking in terms of something more.  She’d need to quit.  That’s not a pleasant thought.  Oh.  That’s new.  That’s different from  _I can give him up any time I like_ .  When did that creep in?  When she asked him to stay after she blacked out?  Now what?  Her confusion and irritation are still circling in her mind when she gets home.

Deep in the night Beckett's in a different twist on her nightmares.  Now when Raglan comes to the door Castle's there too, eyeing her with contempt for thinking that she can make it as a Homicide cop.  It merges into _why should I shadow you if you can't solve the key case?  You’re not a real cop,_ and she wakes, going back to bed only when her eyes can’t stay open any more.


	17. Then I'll Return

More recent murder intervenes the next day.  It's a soap opera crime, even for Beckett's team, who  catch all the oddball murders. 

The corpse turns out to have a wife _and_ a fiancée.  Castle, Montgomery and the boys, of course, think it's great. It's fun to watch for the first five minutes but then Beckett can live without the cat-fighting.  Especially when she’s called up to Connecticut to sort out the two women when the fiancée is caught burgling the wife.  That inflicts a two hour drive that she could live without, especially with Castle in the passenger seat chattering incessantly.  Half the time he’s trying to flirt, trying to convince her to forgive him by reminding her of all the ways he makes her feel so good, and half the time he’s trying to get answers to what she’s doing in her time off.  She chops him off short every sentence on both counts.  This is neither the time nor the place for either.  There’s a case to solve.  And anyway, she’s still seriously unhappy about his last attempt to trick her into answering, she hasn’t resolved her own conflict about what she’ll do if he’s trying to get serious, and all in all she just wants him to back off already so she has some space to think.  And if he won’t give her space, she’ll take it.

Riding shotgun, Castle’s uncomfortably wondering how to retrieve his position, covered by the veneer of flirtatiousness and asking about plans for time off.  It’s not exactly difficult to spot that Beckett’s backed off – or why – but solving his relationship problems with Kate Beckett is not nearly as easy as plotting his books.  If it were, she’d be in his loft every night by now.

He’s distracted when they get to Connecticut by the row between the wife and fiancée.  The amusement  value – and possibility of including it in some future book – is enormous, and he’s taking copious mental notes for the next twenty minutes and wishing he could write them down.  Beckett, however, is clearly not amused.  When the row looks like moving into a second futile, stupid round she channels her inner Master Sergeant of the Marines and stops it cold.  Unfortunately for Castle, she’s so aggravated by both women that the ride back to Manhattan is even less friendly than the way up, and when she pulls up in front of his building and tells him uninvitingly that she supposes she’ll see him tomorrow there’s no option but to depart with what little dignity he can.  So much for the possibilities of a nice long trip alone with Beckett.  He didn’t even get to steal a kiss.  There’d probably have been less risk of being shot trying to steal a kiss from a real Master Sergeant.

Beckett goes back to the Twelfth to do what she’s done every night since the body dropped out the trash chute, stare at the murder board, chew her lip to shreds, and try to clear her head by sparring in the gym for hours.  Seeing as she started late tonight, thanks to those two idiots, by the time she’s tired enough that she’ll probably sleep without dreaming, it’s too late to go home.  The break room couch will do.  Conveniently, there’s a change of clothes in her locker.  She’s kept one there ever since her first days, when Montgomery caught her not going home.  More difficult to prove she hasn’t left if she’s in a different outfit.  She’s back glaring at the murder board early in the morning, and by the time the boys, and then Castle, appear she’s cleared her head of some of the distracting fluff around the case.  There are still far too many double identities and double-crosses for comfort, but the next step is clear.  It’s time to go back to Connecticut and find out what was _really_ in the wife’s house.

Castle’s absolutely certain that Beckett didn’t go home.  But when he tries to call her on it, she’s blandly poker-faced and flat-out lying to him.  On the way down to the car, he tries again.

“Come on, Beckett.  I know you didn’t go home.  I’ve seen that top in the locker.”  He’s bluffing and she knows it.

“Pretending to pry into lockers?  Who are you trying to be? Peeping Tom?  I know you can’t have seen this in my locker because I put it on at home this morning.  And if I find you looking in my locker I will cuff you to it and leave you there with your pants around your ankles for the whole precinct to laugh at.”

“What are you afraid I’d discover in your locker, Beckett?  Love letters from dejected detectives?  Some more of that very sexy underwear you have?”  She fixes him with a familiarly irritated glare.

“Shower gel, a towel and a clean shirt.  Nothing interesting.”

“Only that?  Is that because you’re wearing the full change you once told me you always kept in your locker?  What colour’s your change of underwear?  Can I look?”

“No.  And if you don’t believe I went home _you_ can always go home, rather than come to Connecticut with me.  I’m tired of you pushing, pushing, pushing every time you don’t like an answer or it doesn’t fit whatever stupid story you’re writing in your head.  This conversation is done.  Just shut up for a while.”

The threat’s enough to silence him. She might not have threatened maiming and mayhem, and actually speaking to him is certainly an advance on the coldness and silences of the last couple of days, but it’s clear she’s just about at the limit of her tolerance.  He doesn’t want to be home on his own when he could be with her.  But he pouts for the entire journey up, in the hope that her heart will soften if he pouts and bats his big blue eyes.  It’s worked before on women.  Sadly it’s never worked on Beckett, and today is no exception.   Discretion being the better part of valour, and in the hope that Beckett will remember just how good he can make her feel if he stops irritating her for a while, he keeps quiet, all the way up, and doesn’t even fiddle with the radio more than twice.

 After he finds the final clue, Beckett softens considerably more.  Success in cases always makes her feel better, he notes.  The journey back is much more comfortable, and even if he can’t persuade her to pull over into some dark lay-by for a little diversionary making out (he can dream) she’s happy to trade theories and suggestions and then even let him make suggestive comments to her all the way back without promising to kill him.  He still doesn’t try to touch her, but he thinks now that’s only a matter of time.  Maybe he’s back on track.  _Try not to push, Rick_.  At least not till she opens up to him.

In the end, after all the confusion of double identities and double-crossing industrial espionage, it turns out to be a simple enough crime: money and greed at the heart of it.  The murderer doesn’t even have a second identity.  It’s almost disappointing.

The case has given Beckett an excuse not to think about anything else.  She’s worked herself into mental exhaustion, she’s spent her other hours in the gym to drain herself physically, and it’s succeeded: she hasn’t dreamed.  But now it’s over and she needs to get her head straight.  She’d backed off, hadn't tried to see Castle outside of work.  He’d asked her not to _shut him out_ , but she’d been so annoyed at him pressing her – and his timing - that she’d ignored that until yesterday in the car back.  She hadn't meant to back off quite so far.  She didn't want to upset him, just needed him to stop pushing.  Especially while she tries to solve a case.  And now he looks just like some bouncy puppy, all sloppy affection, waiting for her to call him back and play with him again.  She’s been thoughtless.  Is she so lost in her obsession with solving homicides that she’s forgotten how to be civilised?  That’s not good.  _Snap out of it.  Get your head out your ass, Kate._

When she looks around he's just where he always is when they close a case, sitting by her desk playing with his phone and sneaking swift, hopeful glances at her.  Up to her to make a move, finish repairing the situation.  She turns towards him, smiles unguardedly, takes a step forward as he looks pleased and, shamingly, surprised.  She has hurt him.  She’s ashamed that she hasn’t at least taken the time to explain that the case has required her whole attention.  He’d have understood; he knows how much solving each homicide means to her.  She needs to make it up to him, apologise for her thoughtlessness.  He deserves that.  Casual does not mean unkind.  So.  _Make it better, Kate._   She doesn’t want to give him up.

Castle’s watching Beckett as much of the time as he can.  She’s been so focused on this case – or is it her mother’s case? - she seemed to have forgotten that he’s there outside the precinct.   She’s shut him out for most of this case, and it hurt.  He shouldn’t have pushed her.  But then she was prepared to return to at least moderately receptive yesterday.  And anyway, he really wants Beckett back, in his arms, in his bed.  Just…in his life.  And if that’s pathetic and needy and completely unmanly – well, he’s cool with that.  He can be manly in other ways.  And then she turns to him and smiles in a wholly open way he very rarely sees and steps in his direction…and then stops.  A series of expressions flicker across her face not one of which remains long enough for him to get a proper fix on it.  But a year and some of observing Beckett gives him at least a chance of guessing that there’s concern, relief and - _indecisiveness_?  Beckett’s never indecisive.  That must be wrong.  He doesn’t exactly understand the relief bit either.  He’ll take concern, though, in the absence of anything else.  There’s something else, too.  He can’t identify it.  It’s not an expression he’s ever seen on Beckett before.  Oh.  But he’s seen it on his mother, usually when she’s come in a bit over-lubricated and far too late.  It’s shame.  What’s Beckett got to be ashamed of?  And then her face clears and she takes another step towards him and says in her normal precinct voice but eyes that make him want to take her straight to the nearest lockable private space, “I’m sorry it’s taken so long, this case has just had too many double identities for any of 1PP’s forms to cope.  Have you been _waiting_ for me, Castle?”

And whatever other expressions might have temporarily confused him, she’s oh-so-subtly apologised which is definitely a new and encouraging development because he doesn’t think she’s _ever_ apologised to him for anything before, and those dark bedroom eyes are quite unmistakable and say very clearly _I want you._ It’s not an invitation he has any intention of refusing.  But... a little mutually enjoyable payback could usefully be included.  He’s not a toy. He’s all man.

In the elevator it’s just them.  Castle pulls Beckett in and kisses her deep and a little rough, takes the opportunity to touch her entirely inappropriately for a public elevator until she squirms against his hand.  “I’ll see you at your apartment shortly,” he murmurs.  “Just got to deal with something first.”  He sees disappointment flash in Beckett’s eyes.  Let’s move away from plain vanilla and see what happens.  “And, Beckett,” - she prises her eyes off his mouth –“by the time I get to yours you should be more _appropriately_ dressed.” 

“Are you trying to tell me what to do, Castle?”  It was supposed to be sharp, but it’s emerged in a husky, breathy voice with an amused undertone.  The idea that he’s getting a little more adventurous has heat pooling below her waist.

“Not trying.  I am.”  He’s staring down at her and a spice of danger is mixing with the desire on his face.  “Don’t disappoint me.”  _Oh, this could be fun_.


	18. Keeping Watch In The Night

Beckett’s apartment contains an extensive collection of clothes and shoes and underwear, capable of dealing adequately with most occasions.  The real question, though, is whether she is going to play along with the game.  She grins wickedly to herself and chooses carefully.  She fully expects that she’ll be waiting for a while, but her case file will help her pass the time.  Wicked grin turns to serious thought and she’s back circling, rearranging, looking for connections that aren’t there.

When Castle knocks on her door she’s not noticed how long he’s taken.  And before she opens up she’s careful to put all the papers away.  Of course he notices that she hasn’t opened immediately, but he isn’t saying anything about it.  Maybe because, it seems, he is utterly incapable of saying anything at all.  It’s entirely possible that she has finally found something that will completely shut him up.  Unfortunately, it’s not something that she can use anywhere in public.

“Cat got your tongue?” It sounds more like _Kate got your tongue_?

Castle had quite deliberately waited, hard as that had been, so that Beckett would be… _pleased_ … to see him.  So that she’s not the only one controlling the pace.  But he can’t make his mouth work.  He also can’t make his brain formulate any words at all.  He’s been comprehensively outplayed.  But _oh fuck_ he really does not care because Kate Beckett is wearing a teeny tiny black chiffon baby-doll slip with teeny tiny black briefs that starts just on her breasts and finishes approximately two inches below her ass and is covering all the salient features while still being close enough to transparent that it should be utterly illegal.   And killer heels.  There is no blood left in his brain.  All he can think is _Mine._   And he reaches out and takes it.

She’s smirking at the effect she’s caused, knowing she’s wet and ready for him, when Castle grabs her and flips her against the nearest wall and jerks one leg up tight around him as he grinds into her.  He’s kissing her, fierce and frantic and utterly possessive, shoving his hips against her and she rocks into him and then the slip’s up and the briefs that go with it are off and he’s so desperate to have her he still hasn’t been capable of uttering a single word and then he’s thrust into her so hard that she’s lifted off the floor and wraps her legs around him.  All his normal filters, attention to his partner, are missing.  He wants her in the most primitive, physical way.  It’s blindingly hot, and she sinks into the feeling of rough dirty sex against a wall and lets go.  It doesn’t last long, for either of them.

They stagger to the bed.  Castle’s still incapable of any coherent speech at all.  His eyes are feral and she’s reduced him to basic instincts.  One basic instinct.  His hands are searching for her and she knows she’ll have bruises on her thigh where he pulled her into him.  He pushes her down, no finesse, no clever, sexy games, only hard body and raw ownership, and then rises above her and it’s a reprise of just a few minutes ago.  Mmmm.  Castle with no brakes is an impressive event.  She’ll have to remember that.

This time when it’s over there’s a flicker of consciousness in his eyes. 

He turns on to his side and tucks her into him and tries to recover.  He’s not sure he can.  He hasn’t lost control like that since he was a callow adolescent.  Not that Beckett looks much more together.

“ _Appropriate_ enough for you?”

He drags his speech centres into life.  “I’m certainly not disappointed.  Though I’m not sure that _appropriate_  is the right word.”  She raises a quizzical eyebrow.  “That – thing – is _highly_ inappropriate.”  He wants to say _promise you’ll never wear anything like that for anyone but me_.  Possibly coupled with _promise you’ll wear that every night for me_.  He realises he’s still mostly dressed.  _Not smooth, Rick.  Not smooth at all._

Beckett uncurls.  She wants to clean up, find something slightly less dangerous to wear, and enjoy the company.  Castle seems to have other ideas, judging by the way he’s stroking the fabric over her waist.  But amazing as that was, she’d like to be able to walk without wincing tomorrow.  There’s a way to have both.  She separates herself and ignores the noises of _stay here._

“I just want to clean up.  I’ll come back.”  But she adds a swing of her hips to her walk and hears his breathing quicken as he watches her walk to the bathroom.  She doesn’t lock the door this time.  She doesn’t even shut it.  He hears the shower start.

It takes him a minute to sort out his head.  And then he strips in record time and follows her. 

* * *

 

Afterwards she’s wrapped in a comfortable robe, nestled into the couch.  Castle’s gently stroking his thumb over her hand, up over the small bones in her wrist.  She doesn’t think anything of it until he runs his hand up to her shoulder, over her collarbone, down her back to her ribcage and down the ridge of her spine. 

“How much weight have you lost?”

“What?”

“How much weight have you lost in the last two weeks?”  She’s no idea.  She doesn’t weigh herself.  She supposes, now she’s been made to think about it, that she’s had to pull her belt a – two? – notches tighter in the last few days.  Her bras _are_ just a little looser.  She hadn’t noticed.  Castle clearly has.  She probably ought to be disturbed by that, that he’s been close enough to notice.

“Does it matter?  I’m –“

“You are _not_ fine.” Each word is very precisely enunciated.  She abruptly realises that he’s completely furious. 

“Don’t lie to me and say you’re _fine_.  You’re at least seven pounds lighter than you were.  How can you lose that much weight and _not notice_?”  She promised him she would eat.  She _promised_.  “Have you eaten at all except bear claws at breakfast and when I put food in front of you?”    

She opens her mouth to say yes automatically, and then stops.  Has she?   She must have.  She just doesn’t remember.  “I’ve been sparring a lot.  I couldn’t have done that if I hadn’t eaten.”

“You promised me you’d eat.  What’s wrong with you that you won’t take care of yourself?  What are you trying to prove?”

Suddenly she’s as angry as he.  “Prove?  Prove?  I’m proving that I can _do my job_.  What else do I need to _prove?_   I can spar, I can shoot straight, and I can outrun you and every detective at the precinct.  There’s nothing I need to prove.”

“So why are you not sleeping and then forgetting to eat?  Why are you sparring for hours and working till midnight every night when there’s a live case?  What are you afraid of, Beckett?”

And there it is, hanging in the turbulent air between them.  He’s worked at least part of it out.  She can see it in his face.

“Tell me about the nightmares.”  She’s not looking at him any more.  She’s turned away.  She shakes her head, slowly.  “Shall _I_ tell _you_ then?  I’ll tell you a story.”  He’s still biting off each word, anger and pain edging every syllable.  “Once upon a time there was a girl whose mother was murdered, so she became a cop to solve the case.  But she couldn’t.  And ten years later the girl is a homicide detective and is still trying to solve her mother’s case.  And because she can’t, she’s having nightmares almost every night.  But still she says she’s _fine._ Am I right, Beckett?  _Isn’t this the story?_ ”

She stands up, walks into her bedroom in frozen silence and shuts the door very  quietly.  He’d have been less terrified for her if she’d slammed it.  How did it all go so wrong, so fast?  Well.  He knows that.  He pushed.  It’s always a mistake.  It’s the same mistake he makes every time.  He wants more than she’ll give him and he can’t, won’t, wait till she’s ready to let him in and then he pushes and loses more than he’s gained.  Just like last time.  But he can’t just leave her to follow her mother.  And that’s where she’s heading if she doesn’t get a grip on how she’s behaving. 

He stays slumped on her couch as the failure that this evening has become sinks in.  He knew he couldn’t fix this, but he’s still waded right in.  This time he didn’t try to investigate.  But ripping open Beckett’s scars and showing her the infection underneath is just as bad, just as intrusive.  She doesn’t share her pain.  Which brings him back full circle, watching her ruin her life because she can’t, won’t, ask for help, straight back to where this began.  He’d thought they could have something.  He really had.  But she never once led him to believe there was anything more.  She never lied about that.  He’d been right before.  It was just casual.    

And even thinking that, he still can’t walk away from her. 

Behind the bedroom door, Beckett’s staring blankly at the wall.  In a few short minutes the shell’s been sliced off her and she’s been left raw and unprotected.  Ten years, dissected in ten sentences.  The cut’s so sharp it hasn’t started to hurt yet, but she’s bleeding out on the floor.

She hasn’t the courage to tell him to leave or the courage to ask him to stay.  So she does nothing.  Eventually she falls asleep.

Castle hasn’t left.  He’s perfectly well aware that he should go.  There’s nothing to achieve here, nothing to gain, plenty still to lose.  But he can’t bear to leave.  In some strange way that would be admitting permanent defeat, and he won’t do that.  He’ll wait until he’s told to go.  That way he isn’t giving up.

He takes a book randomly off the shelves.  Anything will do, to pass the time.  It’s an old English crime novel, not one he’s read.  A bit old-fashioned, but he likes the title.  _Gaudy Night_.  The multiple layers to it appeal to him.  As he’s drawn into it he doesn’t notice the time go by, until he stumbles on a line that rears up to punch him:

“ _It’s the only thing you’ve ever let me give you.”_

_“Except my life - except my life - except my life”._

At least Wimsey got to give Harriet Vane something.  He isn’t even able to do that.  She’s never let him give her anything.  He puts the book down, blinded by the sudden pain.  He can’t read it anyway, his vision is blurring.  Must be tiredness.  There’s no other reason for it.  He closes his eyes to ease them.

Something wakes him. The damp, chilly grey of a late November early morning is leaking round the edges of the blinds.  The book is still on the floor where he’d left it; his neck and back ache from the contorted position he’s got himself into.  He’s still on Beckett’s couch.  He listens more intently.  Nothing.  He’s bending to pick up the book when he hears it again.  “Nooo.  I _am_ a cop.”  The pain in it could shatter mountains.  “Castle, I _am._ ”

He doesn’t stop to think.  He’s through her bedroom door in instants, landing next to her and cradling her up against his shoulder, trying to drag her back to consciousness.  It isn’t working: she’s fighting him, struggling and frantic and still asleep, but he can’t let her go, can’t let her wage this war alone.  It takes a long time for her to still, for struggle to diminish to shivering and sobbing in his arms, and longer yet for her to wake.  All he can do is keep repeating, “Of course you’re a cop, Beckett,” and hope that it reaches her. 

He knows that he’d been precisely correct about the basis of her nightmare now: it’s her mother’s case, her failure to solve it.  However wrong it is, down deep she doesn’t believe she’ll ever be a proper cop till her mother’s case is solved.  Until she solves it.  It wasn’t even her failure in the first place, but that of the detectives who caught it ten years ago.  But none of the evidence to the contrary will convince her otherwise.  And clearly in her dreams people – him? why him? – are telling her she isn’t really a cop.

It’s worse than he had imagined.  He’d thought it was just the murder, but he hadn’t considered that subconsciously she feels a failure.  No wonder she doesn’t sleep, runs herself to exhaustion.  No wonder she’s being casual.  She doesn’t believe she deserves anything more.  So she doesn’t even look for it.  No wonder she’s not opening up to him.  The bitter taste of remorse lies at the back of his throat.   Yet again, for all his observing of her, he’s got her wrong. 

He’s still holding her, murmuring his mantra, when she wakes. 

It takes a moment to realise what’s different: that she’s being gently held, not trapped and tangled in her covers; that the warmth is familiarly scented male, not sweat-soaked pillow and comforter; that the noise is a quiet rumble telling her over and over that she _is_ a cop, of course she is, not the metallic buzz of her alarm or the harsh voices in her dreams.  As her heartbeat slows she sits, static, passive, knowing she should pull away but not capable of doing so.  Movement, thinking, everything is an effort she can’t make.  There’s a drumbeat of _now he knows, now he knows_ ricocheting in her head.  It’s impossible to concentrate while the technicolour horror of her nightmare is still blazoned on her mind.

“You want some coffee, Beckett?”  The soft query penetrates her passivity. 

“I’ll do it.”                                                                                                                      

He wants to say _no, don’t, just rest, let me do it,_ when he realises that she needs something she can control, something to do, to be capable, daytime Detective Beckett again.  “Okay.”  And he lets her go, noting the quiver in her knees when she stands, the slight shake of her shoulders.  He doesn’t reach out to support her.  He thinks that might break her.  There’s been enough of that for one night.  Once coffee is ready, dark and strong and reviving, it’ll be time to talk.


	19. One Day More

Beckett’s making coffee with intense attention to detail.  She’s absolutely focused on the exact level of coffee in the scoop, levelling perfectly to the edge; matching mugs, jug for the milk.  Her perfectionism is terrifying and heartbreaking.  Her fine motor control is absolute.  It’s also utterly clear that if anything goes wrong she’ll snap.  Castle can hardly watch.  Silence stretches thinly over the tension.

When she puts the coffee down on the table, everything arranged precisely, evenly, on a tray, jug and pot triangulated with the matched mugs, it doesn’t lessen the strain.  For all his words, he can’t think how to start.  He takes a gulp of coffee in the hope that it will provide inspiration.  Beckett hasn’t lifted her cup yet.  He looks more carefully and sees her hands shaking.  She won’t risk spilling it, he knows: that would be a failure of control.  And right now, that control is all she has.  Maybe that’s where to start.

“If you tell someone about the nightmares, maybe you’ll get some control over them.”  His voice is very gentle.  Her face is mostly hidden: he can’t see her eyes, can’t read her.  Doesn’t dare move closer.  There’s no visible reaction.  “Does anyone know about them?”  _Except you and me._   Still nothing.  “You could tell me.  I think I know most of it already so it’s not like you’d be starting from scratch.  You wouldn’t be showing me anything you haven’t before now.”  In other times and places, that last sentence could have been a come-on.  Here and now, it’s just the truth.

“What do you think you know?”  It’s flat, emotionless, still totally controlled.  But it’s the closest she’ll get to capitulation.

“You see your mother.  You see the detective who came to your door.  You see the case file and the photos and the autopsy report.”  He takes a breath.  This is excruciating.  Every word is slicing into her, bathing the open wounds in salt.  “People” – he doesn’t name them, though he knows who: her mother, the detective, him.  He doesn’t think she could stand that, right now – “are telling you that if you can’t solve this case, you aren’t a real cop.”  He clamps down on any further words.  Her shoulders are set, her hands white-knuckled in her lap, her face hidden.  She still hasn’t lifted her coffee.

“Congratulations.  You’ve solved the mystery.”  The tone burns like caustic.  “So now you know.  Some more background for Nikki Heat.”  The unfairness stabs into him.   He’s never going to put this on paper.  He doesn’t retaliate.  He doesn’t move.  He recognises this as blindly hitting out in defence, an attempt to make him lose his temper, storm out, allow the whole issue to be avoided again.  It won’t work.  She can’t drive him away like that.  But she knows exactly how to hurt him most.  Then again, he’s hardly been a paragon of support over the last eight hours.  Maybe he deserves it.  He can take this, if it brings her closer.

“I need to wash.  Go or stay, it makes no difference.”  It’s exactly what she’d said the first night, same flat cadence, same lack of personality.  But he won’t take the same route out.  He’s not going to trap them into an endless round of the same argument, the same lack of openness, the same use of sex to cover the gaps.  He’ll do it differently.  Somehow.  Some way.

When she leaves the room he picks up _Gaudy Night_ again.  It’s got some of the same issues he faces.  Might give him some insight, and after all, he can’t do worse than he already has.  But it doesn’t help.  It’s too neat, too tidy.  What did he expect?  It’s a detective novel, and they always have a neat, tidy ending.  He knows that.  He writes them.

Beckett’s in the hottest shower she can stand, trying to warm up.  She’s still shivering.  She hates that Castle can look straight through her and tell the whole story, like it’s as obvious as a Times Square advert, and worse still get it all correct.  It makes her feel utterly exposed.  When she steps out, she stands before the mirror, intent on proving that she’s fine.  Except - she isn’t.  She looks aghast at the sharp corners of her collarbone, the jut of her hipbones, the way she can see her ribs under stretched skin.  She hadn’t noticed.  _She hadn’t even noticed_.  And Castle, damn him, had.  He’d been right, about the weight loss, and the nightmares.  And now she has to acknowledge it.  She dresses, slowly and reluctantly.  She’s as eager to admit her fault as she would be to face a firing squad.   But if Castle is still there – there’s an unexpectedly sharp bite in her chest at the thought that he might not be – then the least he deserves is honesty.

She’s surprised by the strength of relief she feels that Castle is still there.  She’d certainly done her best to drive him away, and she would have been fairly served if he’d gone.  “Castle,” she starts, and hesitates, unsure where to go next.  His head snaps up, surprised.  “I’m sorry.”  She swallows.  “You were right.  I…I didn’t realise I wasn’t eating.”  She stops again.  She’d expected him to look triumphant.  Instead he’s sympathetic.  “And you were right about the nightmares.”  She sits down next to her coffee and takes a long drink.  Castle’s watching her with soft blue eyes, not speaking, leaving her unpressured time and space to get it together.  She doesn’t deserve this kindness: it undoes her control.  She seeks refuge in her coffee mug, to try to collect herself.

Castle is exerting all the self-control of which he is capable so that he doesn’t speak, doesn’t move closer, doesn’t _push_.  He has to let Beckett take her own time.  She’s taken the first step, even apologised, (She didn’t need to.  He saw her pain.) and now he needs to let her find her own way through.  Which does not involve him touching her, because if he does that he’ll kiss her, and if he does _that_ it is quite possible that they’ll end up in bed just like almost every other time which will absolutely not resolve anything right now.  Even if he really, really wants to hug her to make this better.  _Remember,  you can’t fix this for her.  She has to fix it herself._   He concentrates on radiating sympathy and keeps his mouth firmly shut and his body motionless.

Beckett is still trying to organise her thoughts.  It’s not working well.  For all her skill at assembling clues into a logical whole, she can’t easily apply it to her own situation.  Too close, too emotional, too unresolved.  She can do this.  She has to do this.  _Think, Kate_.  One: she needs to eat properly.  Two: she needs to sleep properly.  Three: that means that she needs help with the nightmares.  Only the nightmares.  She can’t go further than that.  At this stage, her courage starts to fail her.  She doesn’t want to take the next step.  But she’s never shied from facing the facts, however painful, before, in any investigation, and she won’t do it now.   Therefore, four: she needs to talk about it to someone she trusts.  That’s a very short list.  Ten years of not letting anyone in hasn’t left her with many people that she talks to about anything significant.  In fact, for this, none.  Not even Lanie knows about the nightmares.  Only Castle.  She bites her lip unhappily and takes the final step to solve this situation.  She needs to talk to him.

“I’ve...always had nightmares about it.”  She doesn’t need to elaborate.  He knows what _it_ is.  “But they got worse recently.”  Castle suddenly thinks he might know when; there are only two possible triggers and he caused both: the new information last summer and the cherry pie last month.  Oh shit.  This is his fault.  “I dream about it nearly every night _and I can’t find the answers_.  I can’t be a cop if I can’t even solve this case and everyone in my dream knows it.  And they tell me so.  Just like you guessed.”  She stops.   She’s so small and diminished and broken and yet still so tightly controlled.  He thinks there’s more to come.  “So I keep looking for the answers.  There.  Here.”  Ah.  Somewhere here is a case file.  Homicide all day at the precinct, homicide at night at home.  He’d been right, she had been in the archives when he came by the precinct late that night.  He cannot begin to calculate the strength that has kept her functional in the precinct, how she’s been able to do her job as brilliantly as ever, how she’s hidden this from Ryan, Esposito, Montgomery, him.

“What stops the nightmares, Kate?”  He thinks he knows the answer to this too.

“Exhaustion.”  Yes.  He’d been right about that.  There’s a long, uncomfortable pause. “You did.”  Oh.  That’s...interesting.  Unexpected.  He’s not sure how to feel about that.  On one level, he’s hurt, because he’d been right, she was using him.  Then again, he’d hardly tried to make it clear he wasn’t casual, and she’d never indicated anything else.  On another, he’s elated: if he’s keeping her nightmares away, then he’s got a lot closer to her than he’d ever imagined he could.  Elation is definitely in the ascendant.  _Think about that later, Rick. Now is not the time._   He realises she’s stopped, run down.  Run out.  There’s clawing tension in her shoulders, her back, the white clenched fingers on her knees, nails biting into her jeans.  Touching her to comfort her is still going to be the wrong thing to do.  This all began with kissing her to comfort her and it’s all gone horribly wrong because comfort turned into sex turned into this night’s hurt.  If they’d only talked instead of falling into bed, that very first night…  It’s getting ever harder to watch her and not console her.  At least she’s not crying.  It would be utterly impossible not to comfort her if she cries.

Beckett is wholly hollowed out.  There’s nothing left to say, to do, only to try to find some sort of dressing for the raw wounds so she can start to function again.  At some point, she’ll probably be asked to explain why Castle kept the nightmares away, but she can hardly explain something she barely understands herself.  And she’d seen the lash of hurt across his face when she’d said it.   There’s no way he doesn’t think she was just using him.  There’s no easy way to explain _you’ve acted like a womanising playboy ever since I met you so I thought we’d both be fine with casual enjoyable sex._  Especially when it’s now only too likely that, wherever either of them started, that has become a wholly wrong assumption.  All ways round.  It’s only too likely that he’ll just get up and walk away.  _And if he does_ , she thinks bitterly, _then how’s that different from how everything else I cared about has worked out?_   She’s an expert in dealing with the fallout from the destruction of her dreams.  She considers whether to precipitate the likely outcome, ask him just to leave.  If she’s going to be further injured, might as well get it over with, let the new scars begin to form.  She’ll survive.  She always has.

And then he says, still so very gently, “What can I do to help, Kate?”      

She doesn’t know. 

It’s the last thing she expected to hear.  She looks up for the first time since she’d picked up her coffee cup and sees him still softly smiling, eyes kind.  She’s done nothing to deserve his sympathy, and plenty that should have sent him running for the exit.  Except he hasn’t, yet.  Well.  It’s only protective instincts that’s keeping him here, offering to help.  He can’t resist saving drowning kittens.  Doesn’t mean anything more than that.

“Just...have my back.  Remind me to eat.” 

Don’t go.  Her eyes drop away.  She can’t ask him to stop her dreaming.  She’s been pulled up short on how she’s inadvertently treated him by that glimpse of his pain.  She’ll take the pain herself.

“Back in a minute.”  Her voice is very nearly normal, she thinks.  She goes back to her bedroom, shuts the door, walks through to her bathroom, shuts that door too.  And then she sits hard down on the cold tile floor and sobs silently, hoping that she’s done enough to hide it.  There’s no other comfort available.

Her voice isn’t normal at all.  Castle can hear the break in it as clearly as he might hear his phone ring.  Yet again, he doesn’t know what to do.  If he follows, he might spoil everything.  But he’s sure she’s crying, and he so desperately wants to make it all better for her.  Could he comfort her without letting it go further?  Sex would just be such a bad idea at this point, just another way of avoiding all the open wounds.  Both their wounds.  And then he hears the muffled sobs and understands that he can’t, just can’t, let her cry alone.  He has to be there with her.  So he traces her steps and kneels down behind her, where he won’t be tempted to kiss her, and wraps her in against his chest.  And does nothing more.


	20. I Will Be There

Misery, as currently practised by Beckett, clearly does not love company.  The rigidity of her body isn’t softened, her tears aren’t stopped, by the solace he’s trying to provide.  In fact, she might even be crying harder.  There’s no active resistance but equally there is no acceptance.  It’s almost as if she’s decided that she won’t derive comfort from him.  Only…she just agreed to let him help.  Hold on.  What did she actually say?  _Have my back.   Remind me to eat._   There’s a pretty big gap right there, right where she hasn’t mentioned helping her stop the nightmares.  That doesn’t fit with _What stops the nightmares?  You did._   Is she seriously thinking that she can’t ask him for help with the nightmares?  Does she think – oh.  Oh no.  She does.  Kate Beckett won’t ask for his help because she thinks that he thinks she was just using him as a sleep aid, a more satisfying version of Nytol, and she thinks she’s hurt him.  He’d better reason this through now, say something to fix it before she articulates that as a reason to push him away and then goes back to exhaustion as a solution.  Item: her fierce integrity.  Item: she hasn’t to his knowledge had _any_ casual relationships.  Item: he stopped her nightmares.  Item: she’s crying. 

It may be conceited (in which case she’ll surely let him know) but the story plays out like this: however much she told herself it was casual it actually wasn’t, ever; the nightmares stopped because she felt safe (and loved?  She  _should_ feel loved.   _Oh_ .); she’s crying because she’s going to martyr herself so she doesn’t hurt him any more.  For an intelligent woman, Beckett really is a complete idiot when it comes to relationships.

“Stop crying now.  It’s okay.  Shh.  It’s all okay.” 

It’s not okay.  But she’ll make it be okay.  Eventually.  If he’ll just get on and leave now, she can make it be okay.  Cover the cracks.  She leans away and makes herself smaller, trying to escape the touch that’s reminding her of what she’s losing.  If she could muster the energy, she’d stand up and step away; if she could muster the courage, she’d ask him to leave.  The dull daylight bleeds through the blind of the bathroom window, puddles miserably on the floor.  It’s time to face the rest of the day.  Might as well go to the precinct, get the paperwork done, no thought required.  She starts to stand up, feels his arms drop away.   She bites down hard on her lower lip and the sharp pain masks the tightness in her throat.  The sink, the vanity, the mirror, her make-up are all waiting for her, just like any ordinary day; she’s adequately dressed for work.  _Get going_.

“I need to get ready for work.”  She can feel him standing behind her, doesn’t look round, or up, or meet his eyes in the mirror.  “It’s a paperwork day.  I’ll call you when the next body drops.”  She bites down again and steps to the sink.  She won’t show how much this hurts, and while she’s washing her face there’s an obvious cause of dripping water.

“Kate” –

“Please just let me get ready.”  She hears him leave the room, pass through the bedroom.  She carries on washing her face.  It takes longer than usual, and she has to redo her eye make-up several times before it stays presentable.

When she comes out there’s fresh coffee and Castle’s sitting reading one of her books.  She’d expected him to be gone by now.  A full mug appears on the table with a clear implication that she should sit down and drink it.

“I have to go.  I have to get to work.”

“Stop this, Kate.  Stop running away.  We have to talk.  You have to stop thinking you can make decisions for me without finding out what I really think.  Stop making assumptions about what I’ll say or do.”

She doesn’t want to have this conversation.  Get to the point.  The bit where he says _goodbye_.

“Just listen to me.  You got to say your piece earlier.  Now it’s my turn.  I’m offering help, and all you’ve mentioned is making sure you eat.  I can do that, but that’s not what you really need.  You know you need help dealing with the nightmares, you _said_ I’d helped, but you aren’t asking me for it.  Do you really think I’d say _No_?  Or are you just deciding that you’re not worth helping because you’ve got the idea that you’ve hurt me because you just thought you wanted casual?   Nothing gives you the right to decide my feelings for me.” 

_Here we go._

“I’m staying around.”

 _What_? 

“Maybe we didn’t start this off on the right foot – either of us - but that doesn’t make it wrong to carry on now.”  He smiles suddenly, brilliantly.  “I’ll leave you to get ready for work.  But I’ll pick you up at dinnertime – I’ll text you and you can tell me where you are.”  He grabs his jacket, bends to kiss her light and quick, hugs her gently.  As he opens the door he turns and grins.  “Remember to eat lunch, Kate.  I’ll check.”

She’s left staring at his back as the door shuts.  A few minutes later, she notices she’ll need to re-apply her make-up, before she can leave for work.

* * *

 

In the elevator Castle’s trembling from the adrenaline draining from his body.  He’d taken a hell of a chance there, laying it out like that.  It could so easily have gone wrong.  Although if it had, he wouldn’t have been any worse off than by doing nothing; she’d been planning to run from it, them.  He smiles happily.  There’s a _them_.  He feels some renewed confidence, for the first time since he’d told her she’d lost weight the night before, that there’s a chance for more than a casual relationship.  Leaving her to herself for the day is the right thing to do, giving her some space.  But he’ll pick her up at the end of the day and make sure she eats at night, work out how to cure the nightmares.

Let’s go back to that moment of realisation halfway through telling himself the story.   _She **should** feel loved_ .  Oh.  He hadn’t fully examined his own feelings at any stage through the last month: knew almost from the beginning he was in it for more than a casual affair, but wasn’t analysing where he’s really at.   Too scared to poke and prod and find out.  Well.  Now he knows.  Too scared that he’d discover that Beckett wouldn’t feel the same way.  Now he’s sure that whatever she does feel, it’s nothing like casual.  Maybe, just maybe, they can have something more.  If they can work through this. 

* * *

The bullpen is still fairly quiet, no Ryan or Esposito, no Montgomery yet, when Beckett starts on the paperwork that is her least favourite part of cop work.  No matter how much paper she pushes through, there always seems to be more.  Sometimes she thinks that 1PP invents new forms just for the sake of keeping cops from catching killers.  There’s probably some desk jockey sitting in a Dilbert cubicle in 1PP demonically inventing ever more complex forms to torture real cops with.  Still, if 1PP want it, it has to be done.  She reaches for the pile.  If she concentrates hard on the paperwork, then she can avoid thinking about last night and this morning.  It doesn’t make sense to her.  He should have given up on her and left.  Instead he’s told her quite incontrovertibly that he’s staying around.  Despite knowing her position, that she wasn’t serious.  She pushes the thoughts away.  Maybe they’ll make sense later.   

Ryan and Esposito wander in a short while later, discussing what sounds like last night’s game.

“Yo, Beckett, where’d you get to last night?”

“Home, where else?”

“Thought you were coming out for a drink with us and Lanie?  Rang you a coupla times, but you didn’t pick up.  Ya stood us up.”

Ryan picks up the baton.  “Yeah, not like you.  Musta had a _really_ good reason to skip out on us.  C’mon, what’s his name?  What’s he do?”

“Lanie’ll want to know everything, Beckett.  Hope you’re ready for interrogation.”

“Ah dammit, I’m sorry.  Got the date wrong, thought it was today.  Why didn’t you say before I left?”  Excuses.  She’d completely forgotten.  Half because of her mom and half because she’d been fixed on Castle.  She can’t even be there for her friends now.  Guilt bites again.

“’Cause one minute you were here and the next gone.  Didn’t even say goodbye.  Don’t you love us anymore, Beckett?  Gotta new sweetie in your life?”  Esposito’s determined to wreak revenge on Beckett for the dating website fiasco.  He’d had hours of grief from Ryan about that.  “C’mon, spill.  Castle know about him?  Betcha he’ll tell us about him if he does.  Where is he, anyway?”  He hasn’t noticed Beckett getting whiter and whiter, her lips pinched tight.  Normally she’d be shrugging this off with a smart quip, and both boys are expecting that shortly.

“Not in the mood, Esposito.”  They’re left staring at Beckett’s wake, almost halfway up the stairs to the locker rooms and the gym.

“What happened there?  I was just raggin’ on her.”

Ryan shrugs.  “Dunno.  You musta hit a sore spot.  Maybe she had a date and it didn’t go so well.”

Almost an hour later, the punchbag is still spinning and Beckett is still knocking hell out of it.  She’s lost all sense of time and place in favour of sheer exertion, variously imagining Esposito and Ryan on the end of the blows.  Finally, when she’s started to miss more regularly than hit, she collapses on to the mat, towel round her neck, dripping sweat and body aching.  Standing up is more effort than it ought to be, showering painfully slow.  But when she gets back to her desk she’s cleared her head enough to be Detective Beckett, even if she can only manage to get all Detective Beckett on the paperwork.

Espo avoids her gaze.  He’ll likely pay for his indiscretions later.  It doesn’t help that Ryan’s still getting at him about the dating site.  Though…if he wants to investigate what’s going on, why not put the squeeze on Castle?  Except he hasn’t shown up, ‘cause it’s a paperwork day.  Hold on.  How’d he know it was a paperwork day?  They closed the case yesterday, that’s how.  Nothing interesting there.  Shit.  He feels he’s missing something important, but can’t get a handle on it.  He’ll just keep his eyes open.  If Ryan stops jabbing at him, he might let him help.

“Yo Beckett?”  It’s Ryan.  “You want some lunch?  Gonna get some now.”  She doesn’t.  But she has to eat.  And she recognises it as an olive branch for earlier.

“Can you get me pastrami on brown? And a Coke? Thanks.”

“Sure.”

And when Ryan returns with her lunch the pastrami sandwich is tasty and she’s left with about two crumbs and wishing she’d got more.  She’ll say truthfully that she’s eaten, when Castle texts slightly later to check, like he said he would.  Being checked up on should irritate her: after all, she’s an adult and can look after herself.  Um.  Probably.  But instead it gives her a very un-Beckett-like warmth in her chest.

Later on in the day the paperwork has been thoroughly subdued.  Esposito’s still cringing slightly every time Beckett flicks a glacial glare his way, Ryan’s still snickering under his breath and muttering _dating sites_ as often as he can get away with it.  Beckett still feels guilty that she blew off her friends last night without even realising.  So when paperwork begins to pall beyond all possibility of redemption  she suggests a bar and gives Lanie a call to join them. 

When Castle texts Beckett and she tells him to come to a bar in the East Village, he’s not sure whether he should be happy that she’s doing something normal or worried that she’s going to try a different method of nightmare control that doesn’t involve him but does involve copious quantities of alcohol.  He doesn’t think that her changing her solution from exhaustion to intoxication would really be an improvement.  Sudden shame floods through him as he abruptly remembers all the reasons that Beckett would never, _ever_ , use excess alcohol as a coping technique.  The relief that thought brings is very, very reassuring.  He’s dealt with over-indulgence – his own, mostly before Alexis, and his mother’s – too often to want to start again. 

He contemplates the unexpected sight of Beckett doing something normal rather than slipping further into her own nightmares.  Maybe she’s backing away from the edge.  And if she’s doing something normal, then she’s relaxing.  And _if_ she’s relaxing, he can help her enjoy it.  So to speak.  She’ll certainly be relaxed when they’re finished.  Maybe relaxed enough to stay.  To sleep.  If.  If is good.  Better than _not_.

The bar is dim and old-fashioned and sticky with spilled drinks on the floor, and unmistakably a cop bar.  Something about the small groups of people with shields and service weapons and eyes that flick around more often than in other bars tells that to the observant writer passing by.  Castle loves it.  He takes multiple notes as he works his way through to the booth where _his_ little group of cops with added Medical Examiner are downing drinks and sharing what appears to be a mountain of fries with a snow cap of salt.  He watches from a distance for a moment, unobtrusively checking whether Beckett is eating anything.  Seems she is, albeit a lot slower than everyone else.  The level of her beer isn’t dropping much, either, compared to the others.  But she’s fully engaged in the banter and looks closer to ordinary, normal Detective Beckett than at any time in the last month.  He can be satisfied with that: he’ll feed her, if necessary, later at home.  She’ll be coming home with him, one way or another.  He slides into the booth to join the group.  Sounds like Esposito’s been on a dating site.  How had he missed _that_ , these last few days?  That’ll be good for _hours_ of fun.

A couple of catch-up beers later, Esposito’s suggesting a round or two of pool between him, Castle and Ryan.  Beckett and Lanie don’t seem interested in watching, though Beckett promises to take on the winner.  If she’s as good at pool as she is at poker, he thinks, whichever of the three men wins is going to get their ass handed to them shortly after.  She probably is: she wouldn’t throw down a challenge she didn’t think she’d win.  Not that she’s competitive or anything.  No.  Absolutely ruthless, yeah.  It’s kinda hot.

He hasn’t noticed that Ryan’s finished racking the balls and that he and Esposito have sidled up one either side of him until Esposito says balefully, “Hey bro, what’s with Beckett this morning?  You upset her?” Castle jumps.

“No.  Beckett was upset? ”  His poker face is fully engaged. 

Esposito glares at him, clearly intent on intimidation.  Ryan tries to copy the glare but only succeeds in looking dyspeptic.

“She have a bad date last night?” 

“How would I know?” he lies.

“You’re the one observing her.”

“Yeah, in the precinct.  Don’t see her letting me _observe_ if she’s on a date.  Unless you’re trying to tell me she likes –“  He stops.  Espo and Ryan look like they’ll punch him if he finishes that sentence.  “Well, maybe not.  Who’s going to break?”  Danger averted.  He sounded like an obnoxious prick, but he needed to distract them.

Espo gives up for the moment.  He strongly suspects that Castle knows more than he’s saying, but there’s nothing there to allow him to shake it out of him.  Yet.  He’ll have another go, soon.  He’s not happy that Beckett’s been upset.

Esposito wipes the floor with Ryan, unsurprisingly, but when he takes on Castle it’s a different story.  Castle’s misspent a lot of time in bars, and while Espo’s pretty damn good at pool, Castle’s just a smidgeon better.  It comes down to the eight-ball and Castle drops it at the first time of asking.  Esposito’s disgusted with himself, slouching back to the booth and telling Beckett to get on the table and kick Castle’s ass.  Castle’d rather she – _stop right there, or you won’t be able to sight the cue ball, Rick_.  He racks up, offers Beckett the break.

“Nah, we’ll flip for it.  Wouldn’t want to take unfair advantage of you.”  She sounds a bit buzzed, a bit reckless.  He thinks of all the ways she could take any advantage of him she wanted.  It’s not helping his concentration at all.  Naturally, Beckett wins the toss.  His fractured concentration doesn’t make the slightest difference to his play.  He doesn’t even get on the table.  Beckett cleans up from break to eight ball.  Buzzed hasn’t hindered her at all.  She’s not magnanimous in victory, either.

“’S that the best you got, Castle?  Better practice before you try taking me on again.”  She’s smirking triumphantly.  No-one’s in earshot.

“Oh, I’ll take you, Beckett.  Just you _wait_.”  Her breath catches and her eyes are hot.  He thinks it’s time to go home.  Watching Beckett in tight jeans bent over the pool table, biting her lip in concentration, has left him uncomfortably constricted.  He’s trying to block out unhelpfully vivid visions of Beckett bending over a pool table dressed rather differently when he notices that the fries are all gone, the beer bottles are empty, and a variety of _time-to-go-home_ comments are drifting in the air. 

“Wanna share a cab, Castle?” 

“Sure.”   Oh yes.  He’s got plans for the cab ride.  And after.


	21. Filling The Darkness

Beckett still hasn’t worked out what is going on with Castle, but she’s given up trying for the moment.  She’s still jazzed from clearing the pool table, buzzed from beer and not much food, and difficult questions can wait till tomorrow.  She wants some uncomplicated fun.  If Castle’s up for staying around, even though she made her position clear, then she’s happy to carry on too.  She’s not thinking about how much it hurt her when she thought he’d walk away.  She doesn’t think about _why_ Castle might want to stay around.  She doesn’t think about whether he’d understood her position.  Actually, she just doesn’t want to think tonight at all.

The expression on Castle’s face just before they all quit the bar has left her pretty confident that the ride home won’t be…bland.  She doesn’t notice that Castle’s only told the driver his address.  And once the cab is moving he’s got one arm round her shoulders, fingers over her collarbone just a fraction shy of indecently low, and the other hand is currently on her leg, just a fraction short of indecently high.

“Where’d you learn to play pool like that?”  He hasn’t been humiliated that badly on a pool table since he was nineteen.  It would be emasculating, if it weren’t Beckett.  She’s tougher than every man he knows.  Even with her nightmares included.

“College.  Cop bars.  Covered my drinks bills hustling.”  The immediate picture of a younger Kate, carefree and ready to take on the world, cleaning up at the pool tables at Stanford with drooling frat boys all around, none of them any match for her, replaced by a darker image of her intent stare, in some dingy cop bar on the Upper East side, still winning but with no joy in it, dances in his mind, reminding him how she came to be a cop.  He’s momentarily forgotten his plans for the cab ride, until Beckett shifts slightly, encouragingly, when it all comes tumbling back.  He eases closer, extends the fingers of both hands, one down, one up, strokes gently.  There’s a soft hum of satisfaction.

“Like that, Beckett?”  He extends again, curling slightly to match the curves of her body.  This time there’s a soft gasp.

He’s whispering evil things in her ear, what he’ll do, how he’ll touch her, how she’ll react, and his hand has crept up her thigh until he’s hit her hip and his fingers _still_ aren’t touching her the way they ought to be.  She’s damp and hot just from the words, the expectations he’s arousing, but when she tries to wriggle into a better position he stops her and just keeps teasing till she grabs his hand and attempts to move it herself to where she wants it.

“Eager, hmm?  Wanting more?  I told you you’d need to _wait_ , Beckett.”  She doesn’t want to wait.  And she thinks she knows how to make sure she doesn’t have to.  She glides her free hand around his jaw, lightly grazing over his lips, down the vee of his collar, down further over his shirt, and pauses.  He’s not looking quite so cool now.  Her hand slips past his belt buckle and it’s his turn to gasp and jerk his hips into her.

“Now who’s wanting more, Castle?”

He seizes both her wrists and traps them within the hand trailing over her shoulder.  “Naughty, Beckett, very naughty.  Now you’ll have to wait longer.”  And he’s teasing her again and she’s making little noises till he kisses her to muffle that the noises are becoming moans and that’s not how she behaves in the back of a New York cab but what he’s doing to her is just so _hot_ that she can’t help herself and she’s just about to – and the cab’s stopped and Castle’s stopped and he’s getting out and paying the driver.

“Timing is everything, Beckett,” he murmurs in a voice that should have narrated the Bad Boy’s Guide to Seduction.  She’d hit him, if she didn’t need every ounce of muscle control to be able to stand up without falling into him.  Her knees don’t seem to be working quite as well as usual. 

She’s halfway to the elevator in the spacious lobby, smiling with distracted politeness at the doorman, when she appreciates that this isn’t her building.

“What are we doing here?  I was sharing a cab to go home.  I don’t remember saying I was coming back to yours.  I want to be home.”  She’s petulant with frustration.  Castle’s loft is not, to her mind, private.  Right now, she very much wants to be in private with him.

“I said I’d pick you up at dinnertime.  Now I’m going to make sure you eat something.  And I need to eat.  Alexis is at a sleepover and Mother’s with Chet so I haven’t had dinner either.” His eyes are guileless.  She’s instantly suspicious.  “And then I’ll help you keep the nightmares away.”  His grin is wicked.

Castle’s playing a very careful game.  He needs to be enough like his normal bouncy, Beckett-baiting self that she doesn’t notice anything different. But he also needs to make sure he stays close enough so that she eats and so that he can protect her from her dreams.  Since she’s clearly still interested in the more enjoyable aspects of the last month, as long as he doesn’t make too much of a fuss of her, it’s likely he’ll get away with it.  Time enough later to start to show her he’s in this for real. 

Beckett hmphs with irritation and directs a familiar glare at him.

“Food, Beckett.  How about mac-‘n-cheese, and I’ve got _lots_ of ice-cream for after?  It’ll be quick and easy,  and I won’t make you have seconds.  Even if you ought to.  Those sharp edges of bone are really uncomfortable.  It won’t hurt you to be a little more cuddly.”  He thinks he’s gone about as far as he can without inciting violence.  Violence is not the plan at all.

“Go and sit down, while I make dinner.  Wanna drink?”

“No thanks.  Water?”  Water swiftly appears.  Castle’s being competent in the kitchen – it’s always a surprise that someone who bumbles around behind her at the precinct barely managing not to fall over his own feet can be so physically adept, so together, as soon as he’s elsewhere.  Or doing other things.  Mmmm.  Very enjoyable other things.  Suddenly she remembers all the things he’d whispered in the cab.  She opens a button on her shirt.

“How long do I need to wait, Castle?”  It’s sexy and feline and going straight to his groin.  But he’s still bent on showing her that, even if she can clean up at pool, he can keep her in total disarray while she _waits_.  Just like he did in the cab.

“Till it’s ready, Beckett.”  _Till you’re ready._   “You need to be patient.  Preparation time is critical.  It needs care.  Detailed attention.  Perfect timing.  Adding the right…spice.  Tasting the recipe along the way.  Otherwise the culmination is unsatisfactory.”  He’s grinning evilly and she knows he isn’t talking about food.  She squirms a little. 

“Are you hungry yet, Beckett?”  The intonation is wicked and his tone is getting lower with every passing word.  It slinks along her skin to places she’d rather he was touching.  Seduction seeps into every sentence. 

“Depends how good a cook you are.”  She can play this game.  Even if she’s squirming already.

“Oh, I’m a very good cook.  You’ll appreciate my cooking.”  And she thinks again of every dark provocative word he’d breathed into her ear, in the cab.  She’s wet just remembering how he’d insinuated his tongue around the word _naughty_.  How he’d brought her right to the edge and stopped.  How he’d said _I’ll take you_.  She opens a second button.

“Ready, Beckett?”  _Oh yes._ “How much do you want?”  There’s a question with more than one answer.  But she looks up and indicates when there’s enough on the plate.  Time enough to play after dinner.  And there’s no reason she can’t turn the tables for a while.

Watching Beckett slowly sucking macaroni from her fork, carefully catching the melted cheese with the tip of her tongue, is not helping Castle eat his own portion.  Every time she does it he thinks of what else she could do with her mouth.  It’s possible that he might not be able to make her wait till after dinner.  He swallows and tries not to look at the edge of lace under the vee of her shirt, tries to think of anything that doesn’t take his mind straight to the bedroom.  He’s failing miserably.   He’s on the point of conceding control of the game to her when she puts her fork down, not quite finishing the whole plateful but near enough to be reassuring.  It gives him a chance to recover.  Just as well.  She’s controlled the game this whole time.  It’s his turn.  If he plays well enough, she’ll stay all night.  He’ll keep her nightmares away.  He will.

The space-age coffee machine produces the same excellent coffee that Beckett remembers from a week ago.  Strangely, Castle seems content to sit a discreet distance from her.  It’s not what she expected.  Until he acquires a slow, lazy smile that’s just unbearably sexy.

“Did my cooking satisfy you, Beckett?  Worth _waiting_ for?”

“Mmm, I don’t know.  A little bland, perhaps?”

“You like a little more flavour? Not just plain?  A little spice?”  He’s moving closer with every question.  The smile might be lazy but his eyes are getting darker.  Hotter.  The innuendo behind the words is really beginning to do it for her.  She’s been all wound up since the pool game, unsatisfied need roiling low in her stomach.  She likes this more dominant version of Castle as much as she likes the polished, finessed, playful version.  He stretches out a long finger to tug at the vee of her shirt, taking the opportunity to undo the next button. 

“C’mere, Beckett.” It’s not really a request.  

“Make me.”  She knows exactly what she’s doing.  She wants to see if he’s really up for this game.  And underneath she’s unconsciously trying to establish if this is passionate or just protective – or pity.  She doesn’t want or need pity or protectiveness.

“I said, _Come here.”_   That’s definitely not a request.  When she still doesn’t move, he grips her round the waist and moves her, firmly.  “That was naughty, Beckett.”  The silky emphasis he puts on _naughty_ convinces her that he’s as into this game as she is.  She peeks up through her eyelashes in a way that’s calculated to entice, and when she’s sure he’s looking at her face slowly swirls her tongue over her lips.

“I can be good,” she whispers, every short word dripping sensuality. “Very, very, good.”  She wets her lips again.  “Or very, very, bad.  Which shall I be, Castle?”

“ _I_ think you should be very, very good at being very, very bad.  And then I’ll decide what you deserve as a consequence.”  _Ooh, yes.  You decide, Castle.  Let’s see how you play._

Castle’s intrigued.  Also hopelessly, utterly aroused.  Clearly _adventurous_ had encompassed a wide range of exploration.  Arousal is momentarily quashed by terror that when Alexis goes to college she might be _adventurous_.  He knows it’s a double standard: he’s completely delighted that Beckett is adventurous.  But Alexis is his _daughter_.

Thought is extinguished when Beckett trails her nails over his neck and down into his collar vee, follows them with her lips, slowly undoes the next button down, and the next, and then the next, scraping gently and kissing the scrapes as she goes.  Then she stops unbuttoning, just as Castle was beginning to anticipate the next one’s opening, which is rather closer to more…interesting…areas.  Instead, she opens his shirt wide, flicks her tongue lightly over each nipple, runs the palm of one hand over his chest, down to his navel, circles again with her finger, moves away.  He sighs in disappointment. Before he can tell her what he thinks of that, she opens the final button, pulls his shirt wide open and very slowly slides it off, stroking as it falls.  He’s breathing harder, and she hasn’t done anything significant yet.  Slow anticipation is everything.  She’s amazing.

“Good, Castle?”

“Getting there.  What happened to _bad?”_ He’s baiting her.  What she’s doing is better than good.

“Good things come to those who _wait_.”  There’s a pause.  Allurement slithers through the air with every soft, sinful word.  “So do bad things.  Shall I do bad things to you?”

“Sure.”  It’s deep and slow and dominating and utterly tempting. “As long as you’re prepared to face the consequences of your actions.”

She shoves his shoulders hard and flat against the back of the couch, straddles him and kisses him wetly, gliding her mouth over his, tongue driving him wild, nips and soothes and kisses down his jaw, his neck, laving over his sternum and further down.  He’s pinioned by her actions.  She’s slipped off his lap and is on her knees in front of him, playing with his belt buckle, the button and zip of his pants, _oh god_  she’s undoing his pants and stroking through the slit in his boxers and he thinks he knows where she’s going with this and it is absolutely the most erotic thing anyone has ever done with him because it’s her and _oh fuck_ her hands on him and her mouth round him and _where the hell did she learn that_ she does something appallingly dirty with her tongue and _oh fuck_ his fingers are clutched in her hair _please don’t stop_ _oh god Kate don’t stop now_ except she does and he’s left unsatisfied and groaning and very painfully hard and she will pay for that oh yes she will. Just as soon as he can move again.

“Timing is everything, Castle, I believe you said earlier?” 

He will quite definitely kill her.  He hauls her up and strips her shirt and pants so she’s left in more of that come-on-and-touch-me underwear (and how much of that does she _have_ , honestly?) and pulls her straddled over his lap against the hard hot weight so that he can press up against her and feel the jerk of her hips against him and hold her down on him while he grinds on her and makes her writhe some more.

“That was very, very bad, Beckett.”  She’s laughing at him.  He can tell.  She won’t be laughing in a moment.  “I should spank you.”  She squirms, just a little.  That might be interesting, another time.

“Turnabout is fair play” she smirks.  “Maybe _I_ should spank _you_.  You’ve asked me to before.”  That could be interesting too.

He growls and leans all the way over so she’s flat on her back spread wide with him between her legs and he pins her hands above her head and holds her down while he whispers darkly in her ear, outlining all the dirty, sexy things he should do to her as _consequences_.  She wriggles.  The voice and the words and the tone hit straight between her legs without the involvement of her brain. 

“Why don’t you start, then?  Can’t you keep…up?”  And with that his rather fragile control finally snaps and she’s left stunned at all the ways a very talented tongue can touch and suck and lick and make her gasp and writhe and then moan while he holds her wide open and right on the edge for far longer than should ever be possible and what was her name again?  She’s begging desperately before he finally lets her come.  He didn’t even need to take her panties off.

It’s just as well everyone else is out.  They  make it as far as the study wall before the remnants of their clothing are finally off, hot bodies pressing into each other, fierce possessive kisses giving way to nips on neck, ears, clavicles, just hard enough to be delicious.  Her hands are clutching his ass, bringing him into her, encouraging the slow, almost-painful slide stretching her open and filling her deeper than she’d thought was possible.  He’s so good at this, one hand holding her up on her toes and the other slipping through the heat between her legs, stroking and sliding and circling and bringing her up to the edge and letting her drop back again.  He knows exactly what he’s doing: these are the _consequences_ he’s inflicting.  She’s loving every tantalising movement, until finally he can’t hold her back any longer and muscle spasms tighten hard around him and she screams and comes. He plunges desperately into her and comes himself.     

The next time they actually get as far as the bed.  Beckett pushes Castle down and glides over him, taking him in and riding him till he’s begging her _more, faster, please Kate now_ but she thinks he needs a taste of his own medicine and slows up until he flips them over and thrusts hard into her and sets the pace he wants until it’s both of them frantic for each other to be closer, harder, faster, deeper, _more please more now oh yes_ and this time they come together _._

Exhausted sleep overtakes the messy tangle of naked limbs and sheets and pillows and comforter.


	22. Don't Look Them In The Eye

Beckett slips home early in the morning, saying that she’ll see Castle in the precinct later, though it’s only paperwork till a new body drops so if he doesn’t come by that’s fine.  Especially as a bored Castle – and he’s _always_ bored when it’s paperwork – is a major detriment to anyone getting anything done.  Anything sensible, that is.  Conspiracy theories, dubious websites, far-fetched stories and general noise and disruption will happen without any difficulty at all.

This is New York, so a new murder won’t be long away.  They need to clear the remaining paperwork for the old ones.  Besides, she needs some extended time with her mother’s file: she hasn’t gone back to it, she thinks with horror, since the catfight case began.  She’ll quit the precinct early, go home, review.  Look at it with a fresh eye this evening.  Maybe there’ll be something to spot now she’s more relaxed, now she’s slept and eaten properly.  There will be.  There has to be.

* * *

 

Castle doesn’t want to go to the Twelfth just to watch paper being shifted from one pile to another and eventually into files and forms.  He’s seen enough of that, and it doesn’t get his readers excited.  So after a rather lonely breakfast, he retreats to his study.  He’s got no new inspiration for Nikki Heat, but fortunately he’s got enough chapters to satisfy even Black Pawn’s ravenous appetites.  So instead of plotting Nikki and Rook, he starts to plot Kate and Rick.

He’s succeeded in getting her to open up.  Sort of.  About the nightmares, anyway.  She still hasn’t told him anything more about her mother’s case, though.  Hmm.  It’s not been mentioned at all except as context for the dreams.  He’s not sure she remembers or noticed that she admitted having a copy file at home.  Um.  Talking about that might be the next  big step.  Or pitfall.

In the meantime, and much more hopefully, she stayed last night.  Well, mostly.  Beckett rises quite unnecessarily early.  There are much more interesting things to do than get up and go to work, early in the morning.  Anyway, at least she stayed.  She ate.  She didn’t have a nightmare.  So having him does, in fact, equate to _not_ having nightmares.  So far.  That’s good.  She can have him as often as she likes.  Tonight.  Tomorrow.  Every night.  For ever.

Mmm.  Food, wine, a little – or a lot of - prevention of nightmares, waking up cuddled up together again tomorrow.  Just…perfect.  He leans back and happily starts planning a dinner guaranteed to cover all the culinary bases.  Especially chocolate dessert.

His plans for a new normal start unravelling when his text suggesting dinner isn’t answered.  Nor is the subsequent call.  Nor the next.  Dinner is much appreciated by Martha and Alexis but it wasn’t what – who - he wanted.  He’s sure that she won’t eat if he doesn’t arrange for it, won’t sleep well if he’s not there.  And she _asked_ him to help.  He doesn’t realise that, unconsciously, he’s slipping into protectiveness, in the same way he always does, always has done, for the people he loves.  He forgets, not entirely accidentally, that she didn’t actually agree to let him help with the nightmares, or the case.  That she hadn’t asked him to help with either.  He forgets what happened the last time he assumed he could help her without her agreement.  He forgets that Beckett doesn’t like being protected.

* * *

 

Beckett’s using the unfamiliar feeling of being well-rested, if a little…stretched, to go back to her file.  She’s left her phone in her bedroom, doesn’t notice the pathetic noise that should tell her it’s out of power.  Her concentration blocks out everything.  She goes back to the wounds, compares them to the other cases, looks for points of resemblance in the case details to explain why the knife wounds are the same.  There’s nothing jumping out at her, no matter how she chews her lip, wrinkles her brow.  The cases have nothing at all in common. But - maybe _that’s_ a similarity.  If there’s nothing in common, then that doesn’t indicate a link in the cases, but in the killer.  And the only sort of killer who makes unrelated kills with the same MO is a pro.  A hit man.  Finally, something’s popped.  She doesn’t stop working on it all night.

Morning comes around without her noticing, and when she glances at her watch it’s time to get going.  She’s kept alert, despite the lack of any sleep, by the endorphin surge from her success.

 Castle corners her when he gets to the precinct. 

“You OK, Beckett?”

“Yeah, why shouldn’t I be?”

“You didn’t answer your phone last night.  What were you doing?”

“Reading.  Lost in a good book.  So obviously,” she smirks, “it wasn’t one of yours.”  He growls darkly and she thinks that might be enough winding-up for now. 

She looks at the blank screen.  “It’s dead.  I must’ve forgotten to charge it.  Sorry, Castle.  What did you want?”

“Thought you’d like some dinner.  I’d got chocolate dessert for Mother and Alexis and thought you’d like some.  If it didn’t affect your physical, that is.  Wouldn’t want you to fail that.  I might have to shadow Espo.  Don’t think that would be nearly as much fun.”  His expression makes his definition of fun very clear.

 Beckett acquires a very disappointed expression.  “You had chocolate and didn’t save any for me?” she whines theatrically.

“Didn’t say that.”  There’s a hopefully lifted eyebrow leavening the disappointment.  “I might still have enough for dinner tonight.  Up to you if you come over.  Unless you prefer your book?”  The mischievous look on his face suggests there isn’t much doubt.

“Chocolate dessert?  I think I could manage to clear my busy schedule for that.” She gestures ironically at the paperwork.

* * *

 

The next case drops that evening.  They’d hardly finished filing the paperwork on the last one before they’re out again.  The chance for chocolate dessert is irretrievably lost, probably till this case is over.  Beckett’s not happy about that.  Nor the loss of potential after-dinner entertainment.  Seeing as they’d cleared the air the other night, she’s quite happy that they’re on an even keel.  Castle’ll remind her to eat, and he’ll have her back at work.  And they can continue this as-and-if affair.  She doesn’t consider that, having let him in further than ever before, Castle might not feel the same.  She also doesn’t consider that letting him in doesn’t exactly jibe with her being casual.  And she is resolutely not thinking about the implications of his offer of help with the nightmares.  She’s not able to offer that depth of commitment.  She’s got other, more fundamental, commitments to keep.

They’ve been called to an upscale modern gallery, which is hardly Beckett’s preferred form of art.  Even icons, which despite their prevalence in Kiev she’s never really liked, (too stylised for her taste) are better than this stuff.  Their victim is the owner.  He’s been shot.  Beckett thinks cynically that it might have been an art-lover with taste, making the art world a better place.

A bullet’s missing: they’ve found four slugs and five cases.  Next morning Castle’s full of crazy theories about melted ice bullets which aren’t worth the air they’re hanging in.  Uniforms bring in a possible witness.  Problem is, he’s lost his memory. Bonus is, the missing bullet’s in his book.  Saved his life, in fact, not that this gets them anywhere.  There’s more hope of answers from the scummy ex-assistant.  At least he has a memory.

At the end of the day there’s a general consensus among the men that amnesia is really pretty cool.  After all, it would allow them to forget bad dates, times when they weren’t as smooth as they could have been, and basically any embarrassing moments.

“So what would you choose to forget, Beckett, if you had amnesia?”

“I don’t think you get to choose.”  She might forget one or two scuzzy exes.  The tattooed biker that she’d only gone with to annoy her dad would be well up that list.  But she’d never choose to forget her mother.

“But if you could?  C’mon, you can’t tell us that there aren’t a few moments you’d like to forget?  Bad choice boyfriends?  Drunk nights out?”   Esposito’s trying to jab at her.  Clearly he’s still sore about the dating sites.

“ _I_ don’t pick poor boyfriends.”  Out the corner of her eye she sees Castle jolt.  Shit.  That’s another complication she doesn’t need that she’s just inserted into that relationship.  _What?  Relationship?_   No.  No no no.  Not a relationship.  It’s...She doesn’t know what it is.  “Seems like you boys have a lot of mistakes to forget.  Some of us have our lives well managed.”

Castle’s desperately attempting to keep a bland face.  Firstly – and most happily – because he thinks he ought to qualify for the boyfriend category.  Secondly, because if Beckett’s life is _well managed_ Lehman was a financial success.  He must be succeeding because no-one’s asking him any questions.  If his expression showed what he was really thinking, Esposito would have him in interrogation with pliers in ten seconds flat.

He’s not quite as well controlled as he thinks he is.  Not Esposito, though, but Ryan, has spotted the quick play of emotions across his face.  And when Beckett’s out of earshot it’s Ryan who suggests that the three men go to a bar.  A boys’ night out.  After all, notes Ryan, they can have a few games of pool, a few beers, or Scotch if that’s their preference, and not get either their foibles or their pool playing dissected in a few short cutting moments.  Not that Ryan quite puts it like that.  Castle doesn’t think that the word _foibles_ will ever have intruded on Ryan’s vocabulary.

In the booth at the rear of the Old Haunt, close to the pool tables, the level of beer, and in Castle’s case Scotch, is falling while they wait for a table to come free again. They’ve wasted most of the evening in booze and pool, and unobtrusively Ryan’s made sure that Castle’s drunk more than the others.  About double the others, in fact.  He’s also made sure that Castle’s sitting between him and Espo.  The bar is surprisingly busy, the noise level sufficient to cover almost any quiet conversation.  When Ryan flicks a sharp glance at the pool tables it’s clear that none will be vacant for some time.  Now all he has to do is hope that Espo will follow his lead.  He and Esposito have been scenting undercurrents for a few days, ever since Beckett got upset and then spent an inordinate amount of time sparring.  Wasn’t like her to forget a night out with them and Lanie, either. Something’s up.  And he and Espo are certain that _something_ has a considerable amount to do with Castle.  Start gently.  Lure the suspect in.

“So, Castle, where’d you learn to play pool?”

“Misspent youth, college bar, usual story.  You?”

“Irish bars in Queens, mostly. Espo?”

“Queens as well, but different bars.  And in the Army, when we weren’t on patrol.  Hey Ryan, if you’d ever moved out your Irish bars you might’ve met me.  I’d have kicked your ass at pool then too.”  Esposito’s not sure what Ryan’s doing, but he’s prepared to back him up.

“Beckett kicked ass at pool a coupla days ago, didn’t she, Castle?”  It’s a taunt.  “Wonder where she learned to play?”

“Stanford, and cop bars.”  He doesn’t think about what he’s saying.  He’s pleasantly fuzzy round the edges.  It’s nice to be out and, thanks to Ryan, unknowingly he’s had enough alcohol to stop him worrying about Beckett for the moment. And to stop him watching his mouth.

“She tell you that?”

“Yeah, after she finished handing me my ass.  Dunno how she managed that, considering how tired she was earlier.”

Ryan and Espo are on that like flies on a day-old corpse.

“How’d you know she was tired _earlier_?  You weren’t in the precinct that day.”  Ryan’s sounding unusually menacing.  Castle hadn’t realised what he’s said till Ryan’s tone cuts through the Scotch mist.

“And how’d you know not to show up that day?” Esposito’s equally intimidating.   Castle’s sobering up as fast as he can.  He’s dimly understanding that there’s a point to this _boys’ night out_.  Being on the wrong end of Esposito’s glare is relatively common, but when Ryan starts threatening him too things are going very wrong.  He tries to retrieve his position.

“It’s always paperwork after you close a case.  I never come in the next day unless Beckett calls ‘cause another body’s dropped.”  It’s not true.  And it isn’t helping.  The twin glares are undiminished.

“That’s not true.  You were in the day after the Hayley Blue case – and the next day.  Wanna try a better answer?”

“How did you know she was tired _earlier_ that day?”  Shit.  Ryan hasn’t forgotten the original question.  Castle tries for airy brush-off.

“C’mon, Ryan.  I’ve been observing for Nikki Heat for over a year.  It’s obvious when Beckett’s been tired all day.”

“ _We_ noticed that she was upset.  _We_ noticed that she knocked hell out the sparring bag for an hour.  _We_ noticed that she didn’t leave the precinct and she didn’t take any calls or send any texts.  And we noticed all of this because _we_ are detectives and trained to observe when we are _present_.  So spill, Castle, how did _you_ know what she was like _earlier_?”

“She texted me early in the morning.  Text told me not to come in, it was paperwork.  Said she was tired and didn’t want me annoying her.”  It even has the advantage of being true, if you ignore the first sentence.  And the second.  And the last.  It’s _metaphorically_ true.

“Castle.  Stop shitting us.”  Esposito makes a grab for his phone, and when Castle lunges after it Ryan shoves him backward hard enough that the air puffs out him when he thumps into the back of the booth.

“Don’t see any texts here. Or calls from her.  Wanna try another lie?  Or – here’s a plan – why not try the truth?”  Castle now understands why Beckett’s team has the highest clear-up rate in the Twelfth.  It’s not just Beckett who intimidates the hell out of suspects, it’s all of them.  He admits defeat and hopes that he isn’t about to die.  Maybe he can finesse some of the finer details.  Like the length of time this has been going on.  And her mother’s case.  And the nightmares.  Doesn’t leave a lot.

“ I was at hers that morning.”  His tone does not encourage any further questions.  That won’t stop the boys.  They’ve scented blood.

“I was in the bullpen at 8.  Beckett had clearly been there for at least half an hour before me,” Ryan remarks, the casual tone not deceiving anyone at all.  Esposito’s face is darkening.  “So I _deduce_ , seeing as _I_ am a _detective_ ” – the stresses Ryan is putting on certain words are not making Castle feel any better about any of this – “that you must have been at Beckett’s at between 5.30 and 6.30 am.  Funny time to make a social call, Castle.”

Esposito takes over.  “Yeah.  Only time I’ve seen that, _people_ ” – it sounds very like _suspects_ – “have still been there from the night before.”  Esposito lets that hang between them all.  Castle sets his jaw and says nothing.  He can outwait them.  The aggressive silence spins out.  When it’s clear that Castle won’t say anything, Ryan picks up again.

“If you won’t spill, Writer-Boy, then let’s try the story on you.  You were at Beckett’s the night before.  How long you been sleeping with her?”

And finally Castle snaps.  “It’s none of your _fucking_ business whether Beckett is sleeping with me or not.  Ask her, if you dare.  Give me back my phone.  If you want to interrogate someone, find a suspect.”  He snatches his phone back and shoves past Ryan.  “Don’t try this crap on me again.  I won’t tell Beckett what you’re doing.  But you’d better hope she doesn’t work it out because she’ll hand you your balls for breakfast if she does.  Oh.  One more thing.”  Ryan and Esposito are stunned to silence by his fury.  “Montgomery knows what’s going on.  So this whole set-up was completely unnecessary.  You pair of assholes can just butt out.”

Ryan and Esposito are left sitting with the remains of their beer.  Eventually Ryan looks at Espo.  “I think they are.”

“Are what?”

“Sleeping together, dumbass.  Otherwise he’d’ve denied it.”


	23. Come To Me

Castle exits the Old Haunt at a pace propelled by fury, hurt and Scotch.  He can’t shrug off the effect of Ryan’s little interrogation.  It’s clear the boys don’t trust him not to hurt Beckett.  That bites hard.  He’d never, _ever_ , hurt Beckett.  Rage drives him along, feet pounding on the dirty, wet Manhattan sidewalks, not planning a route or aiming for anywhere, till he finds that his unconscious choices have brought him to Beckett’s building.  He’s still wound up, slightly the worse for wear on the remaining Scotch which his anger and walk has not burnt off, and, he abruptly recognises, he wants Beckett.  He smiles confidently at the doorman and walks straight on past, relying on his celebrity status to circumvent any security issues.  The doorman doesn’t even blink.

Beckett hasn’t been home for long, only enough time to change out of formal work clothes, make some coffee and settle down at her desk.  Fired by the success of two nights ago, she’s anxious to use the breakthrough to make more connections.  The first chance she gets (though she knows that it’s likely to be when this current case is closed) she’ll run the knife wounds and see what else pops.

She certainly doesn’t expect a peremptory rap on the door.  It’s too late for Lanie, who’d ring first anyway, and the boys have never come here.  She shovels the papers into the drawer and locks it, then pads barefoot across the room to check the peephole.  She’s astonished to see Castle.  By the time she’d looked round at the end of the day he and the boys had gone, and not being entirely unaware of the bullpen chitchat she’d been fairly sure they’d all gone to a bar.  She opens up with some confusion but no qualms.

The door is barely shut behind him when he’s kissing her, taking her mouth like the last drop of wine to an alcoholic.  He tastes of Scotch and anger, and he’s gripping her too tightly for this to be enjoyable.  She wrenches her lips away.

“Castle!  _Stop!_   You’re hurting me.”  He drops his hands at once.

“Sorry.  Sorry.  Sorry.  I didn’t mean to hurt you.  I never mean to hurt you.”

“What are you doing here?”  He looks confused.

“Where else would I come?”

“Your own home?  Just a thought.”

It’s not a thought that had even occurred to him.  The evening’s proceedings are not a suitable subject for discussion with Alexis, and he’s hardly likely to want to confide in his mother.  So where else would he come to assuage his hurt?  And he wants her, and she’ll make him feel better.  That’s all he can really think about.  He leans back toward her and draws her back close in so he can simply continue kissing her.  It works, for the first minute.  But then Beckett pulls back and looks searchingly at him.

“Why are you here, Castle?  It’s after eleven, and I didn’t expect you.  What’s going on?”

He’s too fuelled up to hide the truth.  “I just wanted you.  I knew you’d make me feel better.”

Beckett’s regarding him with a very odd expression.  “Better?  What am I, Tylenol?  How much Scotch have you _had_?”

He remembers that turning up to Beckett’s and giving her the impression that he’s drunk is possibly the worst thing he could do.  “Not that much.  I’m not drunk, honestly.  I just wanted you.  Please?”

He sounds little-boy pathetic, as if he’s five again and needing a comfort blanket.  It’s not a tone she’s used to hearing.  Lack of self-confidence is not something Castle suffers from.  She steers him away from the door and sits him down.  “I think you need some coffee.”

He looks mulishly at her.  “Don’t need coffee.  I need you.”

“No coffee, no me,” Beckett snaps briskly.  “I don’t like second-hand Scotch.”  There’s a disgruntled rumble.  But when strong Sumatran appears, he has to concede that she may have a point.  Still, when she puts her own mug down to sit, he tugs until she’s firmly within the curve of his arm.  He has to touch her.  He needs to be sure she won’t pull away.  The earlier conversation has rocked his normal ebullient confidence, and the Scotch has stripped his defences.  He needs to be liked, and right now he doesn’t think that the boys like him.  Being liked is the whole foundation of the edifice that he’s built to hide the insecurity that comes from his unsettled childhood and two failed marriages, always moving on, losing friends and having to make new ones.  So he has to be reassured that Beckett likes him.  Wants him.  Needs him. 

He presses her right in against him, drains his coffee, and kisses her hard and possessively, needing to prove that she’s _his._   At least for tonight.  When she twines her tongue around his and brings one hand to his neck to hold him in place it makes it slightly better.  But it’s not enough.  He needs more, to be closer, on her and round her and in her.

He’s still holding her against his demanding mouth as he stands, pulling her with him and then picking her up, briefly noticing how she’s still too thin, too light.  She isn’t protesting as he carries her to the bed and drops her down, keeping her in place as he peels off her jumper and then bra to allow free access to her neck, her breasts, her stomach.  When she starts to strip the buttons on his shirt, gliding gently over each new area revealed, it ignites him to need to prove that he can give her everything she wants, everything she needs: to show her that he should be everything to her.  To be so far into her that she’ll never want, never be able, to excise him.  And so he takes her hands away and pins her down, licking and sucking from the spot on her neck that makes her squirm, through the nips to her collarbone that make her gasp, to the pull on her breasts that makes her moan.  His only goal is to make her forget everything but him, and then from her reactions he’ll know he’s still got her.  He wants her to love him, but right now he’ll settle for desire.  He’s going to make her absolutely desperate for him, beg for him to do more, give her more, take her higher and never let her come down.  He’ll make her need him, just as much as he needs her, and in her need he’ll find security again.

So he employs all the excellence gained throughout an extensive sexual career, the careful placing of teeth and lips and tongue, of deft fingers and delicate strokes.  He hasn’t gone below the line of her navel before she’s begun to twist under his grasp and plead, trying to release her hands to give him equal pleasure.  But he won’t let her, intent on only giving, never taking.

“Let me touch you, Castle.”

“No.  I need to give you this.  Just accept it.  Please, Kate.  I have to give you this.”

She’d argue, but what he’s doing is just so unbelievably good that she can’t construct a sentence, and then he starts to move lower, slithering her sweatpants down and off, sharp pleased intake of breath at the damp silk beneath.  He releases her hands, nudges her legs wide, shifts his grip to her hips to keep her in place and settles to gluttony: tongue wickedly light, hot breath over wet silk, driving her on.  When she begs him _harder, faster, more_ he slips her panties off and gorges further, switching from tongue to fingers and back, softer to harder, slower to faster, outside to in, until she can’t form words any more and he can barely hold her still: by his count he’s brought her screaming for a third time before he’s done with that game and slides up over her and into her and finally, with him inside her and her under him and her limbs around him , when he can’t physically hold her any closer or tighter and he’s given her everything he can, given her something no-one else can, he lets go.

Even emptied, he can’t bear to release her.  He’s still clinging to her, rolled over so she’s on top, head pillowed against his shoulder and legs entwined.  He thinks she’s fallen asleep, which is where he’s headed too: sated, surfeited and soothed, when she speaks.

“Wanna tell me what that was all about?”  He can’t focus on the question.  “What’s up?”  He shrugs.

“Nothing.”

“That wasn’t _nothing_.  C’mon, what’s up?  Lose to Ryan at pool?  That would be enough to upset anyone.”

He shrugs under her again.  Now she’s worried.  He’s turned up part-way drunk, which would be unusual in itself; he’s lost his self-confidence, which has happened approximately twice since she’s known him; he was unwilling to accept any reciprocation in bed, which is downright unheard of, and he’s behaving very oddly.

“Is something wrong at home?”  There’s a shake of his head.  “Did you have an argument with the boys?”  Back to shrugging.  Worried is rapidly acquiring an edge of irritation, as if he were an unco-operative suspect.  She tries to roll off him, sit up and watch his face as she questions, but when she starts to move his arms tighten round her so she can’t go anywhere.

“No.  Don’t go away.  I want you right here.”

“Castle.  If you want me to stay _right_ _here_ without inflicting physical harm on you, you need to start giving me some answers.  Talk.”

He knows she means it.   But how can he explain without telling her what the conversation in the bar was about, which doesn’t seem like a good plan; or revealing far more of how he feels than she’s ever indicated she would put up with, also not a good plan; or revealing his own insecurities.  On balance, the last is probably the only viable option.

“I just wanted you.  I...I needed to know that you’d let me in.  Let me be with you.”

He sounds hopelessly unsure of himself.  Beckett’s sure that too much Scotch has contributed to this effect, but she’s equally sure there’s more to it.  However, she’s pushed enough. She’s not Castle. She wraps her arms round him and kisses his collarbone gently.  “It’s okay now.  It’s fine that you came over.”

When Castle goes home, only because Alexis will worry if he isn’t there at breakfast and he hasn’t told her he’s out, Beckett lies awake thinking, not about her case or the amnesiac, but about the astounding insecurity that Castle had displayed.  She’d never thought before that he might have his own demons.  They’re certainly well hidden behind the public – and normal private - persona.Maybe he’s got enough to cope with.  It’s not fair to load her burdens on to him, if he’s struggling with his own.  Let’s just keep this light, enjoy each other’s company, stay well away from anything serious.  And given that she’s had a breakthrough on her mother’s case she’s feeling much more confident.  She expects that she’ll sleep better.  But she will have a _discussion_ with Ryan or Esposito in the morning to find out exactly what the hell went on tonight.

In the precinct next morning Ryan and Esposito are unusually skittish, and every time Beckett looks at them or speaks to them they flinch.  She’ll find out what’s chewing them from last night soon enough.  She’s still watching them sceptically when she walks into Castle, who seems to have more-or-less recovered from whatever was biting him last night, and ends up covered in hot coffee.  By the time she’s dealt with that, and Castle apologising for the thousandth time through the locker room door, (and offering to kiss the scald better, which she might have taken him up on if they weren’t at the precinct) she’s forgotten about their jumpiness.  Until she sees them flick an uneasy glance at Castle, who returns a hostile glare, and then a frankly scared glance at her.

Mid-morning, Beckett’s had enough of the tension.  The next time Ryan brings her the results of the latest line of enquiry, she summons him into the break room, closes the door in Castle’s face, and begins her questioning.  Ryan looks frankly terrified.  He knows what’s coming.  He’s expected it all morning and his nerves are already frayed.

“What is going on with you and Castle?”

“Nothing. “ If he’d only stopped there, he will later think, it might have been okay. “We just had a bit of a disagreement in the bar last night.”

Beckett lets the painful silence stretch out, waiting with an interested expression.  Finally Ryan can’t stand it any longer, even though he _knows_ what she’s doing.  He can’t compete with Beckett’s interrogation technique.

“Er.  We might have…” He quails.  Beckett’s interested expression has somehow acquired a razor edge, without a muscle moving.

“Might have _what_?” He jerks to attention at the whipcrack of the last word.

“Might have upset him a bit.”  There’s another awful silence.  He starts to babble.  “We knew-that-you-were-upset-and-it-might-be-his-fault-so…”

“ _So_?”

“So we thought we’d call him on it.”  Beckett hasn’t moved an inch.  But somehow Ryan knows that he is about to suffer.

“Get Esposito in here.  _Now!_ ”

When Esposito comes in and shuts the door, Beckett delivers the sort of raking down that should leave blood and vital organs on the floor.  The boys are white and shaking long before she’s finished.  After far too long, she finally stops, leaving them to try to pick up the pieces of their skin that she’s peeled off and salted.

“And the next time you think something’s wrong with me, you speak to me.  Understood?  If I catch you trying to babysit me behind my back again, I will ensure that you spend the next six months diving into every filthy Dumpster in New York City.”  She leaves in a whirl of fury.  There’s a short pause while Ryan and Esposito make sure that their testicles are in fact still attached to them and not sitting in a cereal bowl on the table with a jug of milk.

“You idiot, Ryan.”

“How was I supposed to keep secrets from Beckett?  _You_ can’t.”  It’s true.  Neither of them can.  However, there is a small glimmer of relief.  “Espo.”

“Yeah?”

“She still doesn’t know exactly what we said to Castle.  That’s good, yeah?”  Esposito’s not so sure.

“So she’s ripped us both new ones just ‘cause she thinks we’re overprotective?  Oh shit.  I really, really hope she never finds out what we actually said.”   

“But they are, right?”

“A’course they are.”

Beckett’s still mad at lunchtime.  Castle, who is not oblivious to the tension, not to mention still stressed from the night before, is waiting for the other shoe to drop.  He’s only too aware that angry Beckett very quickly becomes rather-too-perceptive Beckett if there’s a mystery to solve.  So when she suggests Remy’s for lunch, he’s more nervous than pleased.  For once, however, he’s not obviously in the firing line.  The boys, however, certainly are.  Whatever she’d said to them, they’re giving her enough space to turn an oil tanker with room to spare.  And she’s still fulminating.

“They’re ridiculous.  It’s not as if I need any help to deal with my life.  Over-protective, interfering assholes!”

But a thin, cold stiletto slides into Castle.  She does need _help dealing with her life_.  She does need protection from her demons.  But she’s still denying it to herself.  That cathartic night hadn’t gone far enough.  There’s still her mother’s case, which she doesn’t talk about.   Or...something else has changed.  Over the last two days there’s been a considerable absence of the stress-soaked, frantic mental backdrop that’s coloured the last few weeks.  Maybe she’s pulled herself together, climbed out the rabbit hole on her own.  That’s a good thing, right?  But if she’s done it herself, she doesn’t need him to help.  And if she doesn’t need him to help, does she need him at all?  The blade twists.  He thinks back to that night, the following morning, the story he’d told himself.  _She’s never had a casual relationship_.  So he expects that this isn’t one, either.  He clings to that hope.  He’s so far past casual it’s the other side of the international date line.

Ryan and Esposito are trying to mend fences with Castle.  He’s not exactly inclined to make it easy for them.  And it’s not like they’re particularly good at expressing regret, either.  They’re most of the way through the day before Ryan manages to squeeze out a _sorry man_ and inarticulately try to explain that they just want Beckett to be okay.


	24. Rest Against My Shoulder

The amnesiac is still no help. Scummy ex-assistant, though, turns out to be an expert forger.  Victim sold forgeries as the real thing.  Must’ve made a packet. Some smooth diplomat seems to be the big loser but he has immunity so they can’t even question him.  It’s hugely frustrating.

The case is about as clear as any, two days in, which is to say not at all.  More irritatingly, the amnesiac is sleeping in the break room which means that Beckett has to go home before she really wants to.  She’d had plans to run the knife wounds from her file, see if they pop anywhere else.  Since that discovery she hasn’t had a single nightmare.  Okay, that’s only two nights, and Castle was there for a large part of one of them, but it’s progress.  Maybe she can do this alone, bootstrap herself to some form of normality, succeed in solving her mother’s case.  When she leaves, she goes home via the store and buys some ingredients.  She’ll cook herself something, maybe casserole.  Something that doesn’t need too much attention but tastes good, while she carries on searching for answers at home.  Later, well-fed and content, she relaxes into a scented bath before she goes back to the file.

Castle, meanwhile, finds his plans to see Beckett delayed by a sudden crisis in his own mother’s life.  Seems she’s going off her childhood sweetheart: there’s no spark any more.  He’s not convinced of that.  His mother may be a social butterfly, but this sounds more like she’s scared to go further.  Now that’s something he’s been watching every day, recently.  It’ll be interesting to see how Chet handles that.  Maybe he’ll pick up some tips.  He puts Beckett firmly out his mind for the moment and concentrates on consoling his mother with ice-cream.  He’ll get to Beckett’s later.  He texts her accordingly.

* * *

 

Despite how late it is, Castle arrives rather before Beckett’s expecting him, and although she shuffles her papers together she hasn’t time to put them away before she opens the door, unless she wants to answer difficult questions about how long it takes her to answer the knock.   While she’s making coffee he’s prowling round, commenting on her taste in books, when he spots the papers.  He’s just about to go nearer when Beckett reappears.

“Leave my desk alone, Castle.  It’s private.”  He jumps guiltily.

“Aww.  C’mon, share.”  He knows what’s on there.  He’s a 20-20 vision speed reader and he’s seen just enough to identify it accurately as a crime scene photo and file.   And there’s only one of those likely to be in Beckett’s apartment.

“It’s my investment portfolio.  Secretly I’m Warren Buffett.” 

“Can you give stock tips?  Advice on investment?  What should I get into?”  And he’s close enough to kiss her and his tongue is very definitely investing in her mouth.

“Me.”

“I think I’ll definitely exercise my put options.  I’ll put you on the bed” – and he does, smiling  – “and I’ll put myself next to you” – and he does that too – “and then I’ll put my hands and my mouth all over you until you exercise your call options.”  And he leans over and kisses her softly and feathers his fingers down over her breast and rolls her nipple till she whimpers and then replaces fingers with his lips and teeth and tongue. And when he’s finished there for the moment, because she’s digging frantic fingers into the hard muscle of his lower back and he knows she wants more from the sounds she’s beginning to make, he glides down and runs his tongue oh-so-carefully across her hipbone and down over her outer thigh, back up the inside and follows with his fingers.  Until shedoes exercise her call options to call for _more_ , so he strokes and licks and nibbles till she’s begging _please now taste me oh god don’t stop_ and her hands are fisting in his hair _don’t stop Castle_ and he slides hard fingers into her so slowly that she’s writhing desperately and _harder, faster, please more_ he bites very carefully just where it will have most effect _oh fuck Castle_ and she comes against him.  And when they get tired of that game she pulls him up and rolls him over on his back and strokes over the silky weight till he’s pleading, slides on to him and glides down so that he’s inside her, thick and strong and filling her, and then rides him till they’re both done and she’s sprawled across him like a blanket.

“Today we both got to play, Castle.  It’s not just you who needs to play.”  But her tone is light, there’s a laugh hiding behind it.  She’s not complaining.  Sometimes it’s good to be done to, as well as to do.

 “You know, Beckett, if you need anything you only have to ask.”  He means the case, as well as sex.  Or anything else he can provide.  Only she doesn’t take it that way, ignores the subtext. She can just enjoy herself.  Him.  This.  Nothing serious. She doesn’t need him to carry her burdens, to protect her.  She can do that herself. He’s got his own to deal with.  And now she’s coping with everything better than in weeks, she doesn’t need help, either.

“I do need something,” she purrs, and trails a delicate hand downward over him and follows with her lips, till he’s left groaning and loses himself in the moment and can’t tell her anything more because he can’t talk.

* * *

 

That day they finally catch a break and identify the amnesiac through his dog.  A neat piece of left field thinking by Castle.  Unfortunately, they also find the gun in the amnesiac’s apartment and have to send him to the cells.  No-one’s happy: he seemed a nice guy.  But the evidence is clear.  It’s not a good day.

Beckett’s night is disturbed by discomfiture over the art case.  It doesn’t feel like they’ve got the right answer.  It just doesn’t seem to fit his personality – though it’s fair to say that their perp does seem to have had a major personality change from the way his ex described him. 

When Castle hits the bullpen he’s not happy either, confessing that he couldn’t sleep.  It doesn’t fit the story.  He understands better now, even on one night of case-related insomnia, how Beckett fell down the rabbit-hole like she did.   Although there’s enough evidence for the DA, they’re both sufficiently unhappy that they decide to spend a little more time making sure there isn’t anything they’ve overlooked.  So they go back to the amnesiac’s apartment, arguing all the way about the chances of a different outcome.  Castle, eternally optimistic, is sure they’ll get to a different result.  Beckett, not so much.  The ex is there, packing up rather miserably.  It turns out the picture that the couple had bought on honeymoon is just a cheap copy.  She’d thought he’d kept the original.  It’s a thread, and when Beckett pulls its end they realise that the gallery must have forged it, their amnesiac noticed and went to challenge the owner, the thread leads them to the current, sleazy, assistant.  They break his alibi, and he’ll be charged.

They release the amnesiac to his ex-wife, and the dog.  Looks like they might get back together again.  Predictably, Castle’s all sloppily romantic about their chances.  Beckett’s a lot more cynical, but manages to hide it under enough faked optimism for Castle to claim she’s a romantic too.  She wishes she could be.  In her experience, believing in romance is a straight route to disappointment.  If there were any truth to romance, she’d have been Mrs Sorensen by now and living in Boston with two-point-four kids and a house with a white picket fence.  It’s a lot more likely she’d have been divorced.  Better not to expect romance; it’s not real.  She can only rely on herself.  Everyone else will eventually let her down.  Better not to get reliant on anyone.  Especially now she’s getting somewhere by herself. So she flips him off with the sharp comment that she sleeps with her gun, and sends Castle home in the early hours while she and the boys spend the rest of the night finishing up.

* * *

 

Beckett snatches a couple of hours sleep and a shower which she hopes will get her through the rest of the day and the inevitable paperwork.  _Please don’t let another body drop_.  Back in the bullpen, she, Ryan and Esposito struggle through the rest of the paperwork with all the cognitive ability of a trio of half-decayed zombies.  When her phone chimes with a text and it’s Castle offering her dinner she can just about focus on the wonderful thought that someone else will be cooking and the mention of chocolate dessert.

Getting to the loft takes most of the remaining energy that Beckett has.  She sits at the table, watching Castle’s culinary competence again.  Too tired to be distracted by the sensual haze that’s fogged previous visits, she begins to wonder _why_ he never shows this sort of physical co-ordination in the precinct.  What’s he hiding?  She’s too tired, suddenly, to pursue that or any other line of thinking.  She leans on her elbows, rests her chin thankfully on the support of clasped hands.  Dinner is mercifully swift and simple. 

When they’re mostly through, Alexis bounces down the stairs to see what’s going on. 

“Hi, Detective Beckett,” she chirps happily, in that instant very much her father’s child.  Her eyes are wide and interested.  But being Alexis, not Castle, and therefore possessed of tact and empathy, she doesn’t ask why Beckett’s picking slowly at the remains of chocolate dessert and looking very much like she should have been asleep an hour ago.  Castle, meantime, breathes a small sigh of relief that his mother is out again.  He certainly doesn’t need a reprise of _Richard, just kiss the girl already._   Especially when they’re a long way past kissing.  Alexis, he can trust not to say or do anything tactless.  And indeed, after some small conversation about how she’s been invited to a sleepover at Paige’s at the weekend and _please can I go Dad_ (of course, pumpkin) she retreats back upstairs. 

He casts a concerned glance at Beckett, who fortunately doesn’t spot it.  She’s gone from at least managing to talk about the case, and the romantic chances of the reunited couple, to out of it in less than half an hour.  He’d had hopes, but they can be postponed.  And maybe it’s not such a bad thing, just to be together, without the sex.   Anyway, he’s determined she won’t be going back to her own apartment tonight.  Or any night, without taking him.  That’s probably unrealistic, but he’ll try.

“Coffee, Beckett?”

There’s a soft murmur that’s closer to _yes please_ than _no thank you_. 

“Go sit on the couch and I’ll make it.”  Beckett transits shakily to the couch and props herself into a corner.  It’s obvious that the plump arm and back of the couch are the only things keeping her half-upright.

She needs to go home, get a cab and return to her own apartment, collapse into her own bed, check she keeps not dreaming.  She won’t rely on Castle to solve her own problems.  But she’s exhausted and _here_ and it’s safe and comfortable and smells like Castle and she really does not want to move again for hours.  She has to go home.  Maybe coffee will provide the impetus to get her there.  She closes her eyes and hears the futuristic machine steaming and dripping, smells the delicious aroma.  When a mug clinks down near her, followed by the flex of the couch as Castle sits down, she manages with some effort to open both eyes to triangulate on her cup, stretch out to clutch it to her.  All she wants is coffee and sleep.  Her eyelids are dropping again.  She inhales the coffee and sets the mug down, collecting her scattered thoughts.

“I need to get home.”

“Nuh-uh.  You’re not going anywhere, state you’re in.  You’re staying here.”

Uh?                                           

“You’re so tired you can’t even keep your eyes open.  There’s no way you’ll get home safely.  So I’m not letting you.  There’s no way I can explain to Montgomery how I let you get eaten by an evil zombie cab driver because you fell asleep in the cab.”

Uh?  Not _letting_?   A neuron manages to fire in defiance of fatigue.  “You can’t stop me leaving.  If you’re that worried – which you don’t need to be since, I remind you, I have a gun – then I’ll call a car service.  I’ll be safe.  I wanna go home.”  If she keeps saying it, she might even believe it herself.  She needs sleep.  But not here.  She’s managing to fix her own problems.  She needs to keep that going.  That means going home – alone – to make sure she’s still not dreaming.

“Tell you what.  Stay for another few minutes to let the coffee sink in and then you can sort it out.”  Castle’s got a plan.  He eases along to Beckett and gently drops an arm around her, settling her in against him.  He reckons that there’s a better than evens chance that she’ll fall asleep in his arms, and then he can simply put her in his bed.  It shouldn’t be this hard to take care of her, but then Beckett, while an otherwise intelligent adult, is as completely incapable of recognising when she needs help as a toddler is, and even less able to accept it.  Like now.  So he’ll fool her into tolerating this and she can argue in the morning.

Just a few more minutes, then she’ll go home.  The arm round her is easy, undemanding, she’s balanced against the muscles of his chest, slow heartbeat in her ear.  It’s very soothing: hypnotic, warm, familiar.  Her eyes drop shut again.


	25. You Have No Rights

She doesn’t know where she is when she wakes, held in a heavy arm.  She’s beginning to panic – how can she not know where she is?  What happened last night? – when she recognises the scent of Castle’s aftershave and, more slowly, the feel of his body against her.  That’s all she can process, at first.  Her head clears somewhat, and she notices that she’s still – mostly – dressed, just missing shoes and pants.  She remembers the case, dinner, coffee.  Saying she needed to go home.  Just closing her eyes for a moment before she left, enveloped against Castle.  Her eyes slam fully open.  That scheming, conniving, over-protective _bastard_.  He’d deliberately tucked her into him and let her fall asleep so she wouldn’t go home because _he’d_ decided it wasn’t in her best interests.  When he’d _known_ that she wanted to go home.

She squints at the clock.  It’s 3am.  She won’t be able to find a cab, but she’s got a late-night car service on speed-dial for cases when she doesn’t leave the precinct till the small hours. 

She can’t stay here.  She won’t stay here.  It may have taken her a while, but she’s made sense of what’s going on now.  She’s triggered his protective instincts and that’s the reason he’s _staying around_.  He thinks he can fix her.  He thinks he can decide what’s good for her.  She won’t be some sort of fix-it pity project.  She’s fixing her own problems.  She doesn’t need, or want, protected.  She refuses to think about _why_ Castle might want to protect her.  That’s not relevant.  She should never have let him in, never have let him feel sorry for her.  Pity’s no sound basis for a relationship, and that’s all he feels.  It’s been a mistake.

She starts to slip away from his grasp and out of bed.

Castle wakes to the soft click of his bedroom door opening.  Beckett’s missing from his bed, and he hits full consciousness as he also hears his study door open.  He’s out of bed and padding softly after her, sure she’s trying to leave but not sure why.  He hears her quietly talking into her phone, ordering a car to pick her up as soon as possible.  What does he have to do, to say, for her to stay?

“Where you going, Beckett?”

“I need to go home.  I can’t stay here.”

“You can.  You’re thinking too much.  Stop thinking for one night.  Go home in the morning, think then.”  _After I’ve had another chance to bring you closer._

“No.  I never meant to stay tonight.  I wanted to go home.  I was going to call the car service after dinner.  You should have woken me.  It wasn’t your decision to make.”

“You fell asleep.  Why are you so upset that I just left you to it?  My bed is perfectly comfortable.  And it’s got me in it.”  He’s trying to make a joke out of it.  He realises that that’s a mistake just too late to correct it.  Her expression hardens.

“I don’t need a mother.  I don’t need treated like a child.  It was my decision whether to go home and you had _no right_ to over-ride it.  I don’t need protected.  I can take care of myself.”  Her anger is accelerating.  She’s looking for a fight, to finish justifying walking away to herself.  Her anger triggers his.  He can’t believe she’s starting this again.  He thought they’d got past that.  And because he’s only just woken, he’s incapable of controlling his feelings.

“Really.” He’s scathing.  “Just like you were doing?  Not eating, not sleeping?  You admitted you needed help.  Why won’t you just accept it?”  And then he lets his mouth run ahead of his brain and any last vestige of sense.  “Why won’t you let me help you solve your mother’s case?”

“It’s _my_ mother.  Not yours.  My mother’s case is not some plot in one of your novels.  I don’t need some playboy dilettante writer interfering.  I don’t need you at all.”  And suddenly this has turned from an argument to a full-blown disaster.

“You _don’t need me_?  Yeah right.  Who’ll stop your nightmares, Kate?  Or don’t you care that without me you weren’t eating, weren’t sleeping?  How does killing yourself solve your mother’s case?  Or is the case just an excuse so you can find another route to self-destruct?  Never figured you for a coward.”  It’s inexcusable, but he can’t stop himself hurting her the way she’s just hurt him. 

Her face is paper white but her eyes are blazing. 

“I’ve fixed it myself.  Stay out my life.  It’s over.”

She doesn’t say anything more, just walks out, closing the door with frozen, silent care.  He’s left standing alone in the loft, surrounded by the toxic fallout that’s all that remains of his hopes.

* * *

 

She holds her emotions at bay till she gets home, ignoring the beeps of her phone - she knows who it is, but there’s no way back after what he said - and then sobs herself to broken, restless sleep.  When her alarm cuts through the silence of her apartment she calls in and requests a personal day.  She turns her phone off and pulls the comforter over her head.  It’s all gone to hell.  She dozes intermittently, punctuated by staring blankly at the ceiling.  So.  Well.  It’s all collapsed, just like everything else that’s ever mattered to her.  She doesn’t recognise her own share of responsibility for the fight, or that she’d precipitated the collapse.  She’ll take today to grieve, and then pick herself up and move on.  She tells herself she didn’t expect any other ending, fights back the tears and crams down the emotion.  It was nice but now it’s gone.  The day crawls past, as she repeats over and over again that she doesn’t need help.  Doesn’t need protected.  Doesn’t need anyone.  She’ll succeed.  She’ll be self-reliant, independent, solo.  Again.  Gradually she locks herself down.

* * *

 

In a SoHo loft, Castle is self-medicating with Scotch and blinking back tears.  Big boys don’t cry, do they?  He’s just watched all his efforts to show how much he cares fall apart on the razor edges of her inability to accept any help.  He’s left the first message apologising before she can even have left the building.  He leaves five more before he slumps into his empty bed, still slightly scented with cherries.  He hugs the pillow to him and stares down the dark.  He’ll get her back.  He will.

The next morning he calls as soon as it’s civilised to do so.  It goes straight to voicemail.  He calls and texts several times throughout the day, but it’s always voicemail and there’s no answer to any texts.  He’s left a dozen messages, apologies, pleading for her to come back, that he’s sorry, he didn’t mean it, he didn’t mean to hurt her.  He doesn’t care that he’s abasing himself.  The more he thinks about what he said, his spilled-out, unthinking, furiously agonised words on continuous loop in his mind, the more he realises that he couldn’t have chosen words that would have hurt her more if he’d tried for a year.

* * *

 

Beckett goes to the precinct as normal the next day.  She’s put on enough make-up to cover up how she feels, claims a cold to cover the red eyes and sniffs.  When she’d switched her phone back on she’d deleted every text from Castle unread, every message unheard.   The first ring of a call sounds before she’s even got her computer on and papers out.  She declines the call and switches the phone to silent.

When the boys get in they take one look at her and wisely decide not to ask any questions.  Beckett is typing with the same metronomic ferocity used by a shipyard riveter, and it’s very clear that she doesn’t want to be disturbed.  She’s got a plastic cup of coffee on her desk from the old machine, and when she knocks it back she doesn’t even wince.  Her phone isn’t visible and she’s not taking any calls.

When Castle hasn’t shown up by ten-thirty, and Beckett’s on at least the fifth cup of battery acid coffee, Ryan and Esposito decide to go out to talk somewhere they won’t be heard – mainly so that they won’t be heard by Beckett.  They offer to bring her coffee back but she doesn’t want one.  Good coffee reminds her of Castle, and she can’t cope with any of those memories.  It’s hard enough to stay locked down, without reminders.

“What’s with Beckett, Espo?”

“Dunno.  You know as much as I do.  I guess something went wrong between her and Castle.”

“She doesn’t look good.  D’ya think we should do anything?”

“After last time?  Are you crazy?  The most I’m doing is asking _her_ if she’s okay.  And there’s no way I’m going to talk to Castle.  I like my balls where they are.”

“If he’s hurt her again, he needn’t think we’ll help him out.”

Back in the precinct, Beckett’s glaring at her phone and mechanically deleting calls and texts.  So far there have been five calls and ten texts.  She hasn’t accepted a single call or read a single text.  She finally works out how to block the number and breathes a sigh of what she tells herself is relief.  She then has to spend the next several minutes in the restroom, ostensibly repairing her make-up.

* * *

 

Castle can’t believe it when his next attempt comes back with the message that he’s been blocked.  Even after how it had all fallen apart, he would _never_ have imagined that she’d block him.  He’s distraught.  When Alexis gets home he borrows her phone, explaining briefly that Kate’s annoyed with him and won’t take his calls, so he needs a number she won’t recognise.  The tremor in his hands almost stops him dialling.  But at least this number isn’t blocked. 

“Beckett.”  He can hear the same break in her voice as he did when she actually talked to him.  This time, though, it’s shielded by the rigid control of Detective Beckett, unemotional hard-ass.

“Kate – “  The call is cut.  In the half-minute it takes him to try again that number has been blocked too.  He gives Alexis her phone back and goes into his study to hide his absolute devastation.  She didn’t block his calls even when he interfered in her mother’s case, back last summer.  And he was barely let back after that.  His face grows grim.  He won’t let this happen.  He won’t just tamely walk away.  He’s going to fight to fix this.  Them.  There will be a them.  Some way.  He’ll work it out.  Starting tomorrow.

* * *

 

When the boys go home, Beckett runs the MO of the killer on her mother’s case, but nothing else pops.  She must have got all of the related information already.  It’s not what she’d hoped for.  She trudges miserably home and goes back to her file.  She’s not hungry.  She’ll eat later.  Coffee will do for now.  Of course, she doesn’t remember to eat.  Exhaustion forces her to bed, where all the dreams are back.  Now her mother, Raglan, are telling her that she’ll never be a cop because she’s a coward.  That merges into Castle saying just the same.  How could he ever shadow a fake cop, a coward, like her.  She’s right back in the hole where she began.

So the next day she throws herself into work.  Old cases, cold cases, anything to stop her thinking.  She pounds the punchbag at lunchtime, chokes down the minimum of food to stay on her feet the rest of the day.  The boys come to ask her if she’s okay, and she brushes them off with platitudes and the continued excuse that she’s got a cold.  When they inquire about Castle she says she doesn’t know.  It has the advantage of being absolutely true.  The old coffee machine delivers almost enough caffeine to keep her awake, and she drinks it incessantly.  The bitter aftertaste seems perfectly appropriate.  She spends another spell in the gym once her shift’s finished, goes home and starts on her case file.  There’s nothing else she can do.  Nothing else she tells herself she cares about.

* * *

 

Castle is equally unhappy.  And as so often, his remedy is to write until he can’t write any more, hoping to clear his head.  It takes him to mid-afternoon, when he decides that he has to call Ryan or Esposito.  If nothing else, he can ask them to look after Kate.  He’s sure she won’t be eating, or sleeping.  He’s sure that her nightmares will be back.  He  picks up the phone and shakily dials.

“Ryan.”

“It’s Castle – don’t hang up! I need to tell you about Beckett.”

“You’ve done enough.”  It’s quiet and cold and furious.  And then the call is cut.  He dials Esposito and the call is declined.  He’s upset and terrified, because if they won’t listen how can he warn them that Kate’s intent on self-destruction?

Finally he manages to dial Lanie’s number.

“Dr Parrish.”

“Lanie, _please_ don’t cut me off.”  There’s a pause.   But there isn’t the click of a cut call.

“What do you want?”  Lanie is not welcoming.  He thinks she’s half a second from hanging up.

“Kate’s going to self-destruct.”  He rushes it out in one gasp.  The silence becomes very slightly less hostile.

“Talk.”

“Before.  When I brought pie to the precinct, weeks ago.  She was having nightmares about her mother and she wasn’t sleeping and wasn’t eating and she’s so thin and probably ill and she let me help her but then she wouldn’t and walked out and now she’s blocked me and the boys won’t take my calls to ask them to look out for her.“ He stops for breath.  There’s a space of silence.

“So, Writer-Boy.  You’ve been sleeping with my girl” – how’d Lanie work _that_ out? - “and now you’ve broken up and you expect me to help you fix it.  Why’d I wanta do that? _”_

“Not fix _it_.  Fix Kate.  _Someone_ needs to stop her killing herself.” _And it should be me but she won’t let me._   There’s another lengthy pause.  He can hear the morgue trolleys shifting in the background.

“O-kay.  But you need to give me the whole story.  Come by the morgue tomorrow and buy me lunch.  But this does _not_ mean that I’m going to help you when you’ve hurt my girl.”  He doesn’t care about that.  At last there’s some relief that someone will look out for Kate when he can’t.  It’s a first step.


	26. Catch Them As They Fall

Castle’s at the morgue at 12.01, having fretted his way through the entire morning and achieved nothing except to worsen his continuous, guilt-and-sleeplessness induced headache.

“You look shit, Writer-Boy.”  Lanie does not sound friendly.  But at least she’s actually talking to him, which is more than anyone else will do right now.  “Make this quick.  I have corpses to autopsy.”  There’s a clear impression of _and I like them a lot better than I like you right now._

Castle embarks on the story.  How he went round with cupcakes because Kate wouldn’t eat cherry pie and she was crying and when he comforted her –

“She went to bed with you.  And then she blanked you.”

“How did you know that?  I didn’t say that!”

“Good guess.  Best friend, remember.  Carry on.”

“And then I invited her on a date and she _came”_ – Lanie’s eyebrows lift – “and then she invited me up afterwards…”

Lanie’s eyebrows hit the ceiling.  “She slept with you again?  How did I not know any of this?”

“…and it – we – were mostly going okay until a couple of days ago.  But she wasn’t eating properly and she was having nightmares and she’s got a copy of her mother’s case at home.”  Lanie’s suddenly looking really worried. 

“Then what?”

Castle shifts uncomfortably.  “She came over for dinner after she closed the amnesiac case and fell asleep so I put her to bed and when she woke up she told me she didn’t need protected and we fought and she walked out.”

Lanie fixes him with a glare.  “Now try the expanded version.”

“She wouldn’t let me help solve her mother’s case.  She said she didn’t need me.  And I said she did and…and…” He can’t say it.

“And you ran your big mouth and she bailed.  Way to go, Writer-Boy.  Ain’t no way there’s an easy fix to this.”  Lanie’s viewing him with a certain amount of pity rather than complete loathing.

“I just wanted to help.  I thought she’d see...”  He can’t finish that sentence either.  But from Lanie’s altered expression he doesn’t need to.

“Like that, then.”  She looks sympathetically at him for the first time.  “I always thought you two should hook up.  O-kay.  I’ll do what I can to make sure she’s not ill.”

“Thank you.  Will you…will you let me know?  Just that she’s okay?  Please?”

Lanie nods and leaves.  Castle takes care of the check and trails home, slightly happier that Lanie will make sure that Kate’s okay, but still left with no idea how to make anything else any better.  Until halfway through the evening, miserably remembering all the time, all the cases, he’s spent with Kate, he also remembers how he got started at the precinct in the first place.  And then he remembers what Montgomery said nearly four weeks back.  He’ll give Lanie a day or two.  And then he’ll make sure that the Mayor, the Commissioner and Montgomery get him back shadowing Kate.  Whether she likes it or not.  And then he’ll get her back.  Somehow.

Now he’s formulated a workable plan, it’s possible to think back to what happened and try to analyse what went wrong– and why – without foundering on the sheer misery of no Kate.  So.  Item:  she absolutely has to be in control.  Item: she never asked for help with the nightmares or the case.  Item: her failure to solve her mother’s case has left her believing she doesn’t deserve anything meaningful.  Item: she doesn’t like being protected. The way she referred to the boys at lunch should have told him that.  Item: everyone she’s ever previously loved has let her down.

The story goes like this, he thinks.  Letting him in meant she’d given up some control and taken half a step towards a serious relationship.  So because she can’t give up control, can’t ask for help and doesn’t believe she deserves a good relationship (he has to believe it would be, was, good), she was unconsciously searching for an excuse to sabotage it, because she thought he’d let her down just like everyone else ever has.  And she found her excuse when he tried to protect her by not letting her go home. 

It’s just so perfectly fucked-up, so perfectly rational if he’s following the fucked-up mind of Kate Beckett, he doesn’t know where to start with sorting it out.  But if he’s going to fight for this, them, for her; if he really does love her; then he’d better find a way through.  No matter how much he wants to, though, going to her apartment is going to be a huge mistake.  He mustn’t push.  She’ll only back away, and she’s already so far away she might as well be off-planet.

* * *

 

At home that evening Beckett’s interrupted by a call from Lanie, who refuses to listen to any excuses and simply tells her that she, Lanie, will be arriving at Beckett’s door in half an hour with a bottle of wine and _you’d better have the corkscrew and glasses ready, girlfriend, because I haven’t seen you outside work since we were all in that bar a fortnight ago._

Forewarned is forearmed.  If Lanie’s coming round, then Beckett’s got time to clear away the papers, pull herself together, close off any stray emotions.  Like preparing for interrogation, really.  Even if Lanie could give the KGB a run for its roubles.  So she tidies up her desk, makes sure that she’s washed and brushed and made up, finds some glasses, some wine of her own and some chips so it looks like she’s able to be a good host.  The chips are even within their eat-by date.  Just as well.  There’s nothing else.

Lanie sashays in brandishing a bottle and demanding the corkscrew because she’s seen almost nothing and no-one but corpses for days and how can she have a decent conversation with someone who’s dead?   And then she actually looks properly at Beckett.  She was prepared, after lunchtime, for Kate to be a bit off-form.  But she’s a lot worse than that.  She looks absolutely devastated and she’s not just a little too thin, she’s skin and bone.

“What in hell has gotten to you, girl?  You look like you been rode hard and put up wet.  Where’s your glass?  You need a drink.  And then you better have another drink, and we’ll get some food in.  And in between you can tell me what’s going on.”

“Lan-eee,” Beckett whines.  She knows what’s coming.  She’d prefer the KGB, with electrodes.  She pours the wine.  It might soften things up.

“That what you call a glassful?  Pick up that bottle and pour a proper sized drink.”  Beckett complies.  No point sweating the small stuff.

“There’s only two things can make a girl look like you do: hard drugs or a man.  And you have _not_ been doing drugs.  So tell me, girlfriend, who is he?”

“No man.  And no drugs,” she adds hastily.

“Don’t you lie to me.  I know when you’re hiding things.”

“No man, Lanie.”

“Yeah, no man _now_.  Whatcha do, ditch him before you needed to just in case he got serious?” Beckett winces slightly.  Lanie’s talent for spotting the truth is unequalled.  Also her ability to read Beckett.  “You did, didn’t you?  What is _wrong_ with you?  For a clever woman you are so dumb.” Lanie takes a gulp of wine.  Beckett doesn’t.  She feels the need to keep a clear head.

“It wasn’t working out.”

“Sez you,” Lanie says rudely.  “You mean: I got scared and ran.” Beckett tries to hide another wince.

“We weren’t compatible.”

“So the sex was bad?”

“The sex was fine.” Better than fine.  Sex with Castle had been amazing.  Lanie gives her a _look_.  “Okay.  The sex was great.”

“Not bedroom problems, then.  So define _not compatible_.”

“We wanted different things.  It wouldn’t have worked.”

“But you didn’t wait to see, did you?”

“No point.  If it’s not gonna work, why waste time on it?”

“Great sex is a good reason.  Everybody needs some fun,” Lanie leers.

“Not enough of one.”

Lanie changes tack.  She’s got enough from this line of enquiry. 

“I’m hungry.  You got something other than chips or are we getting take-out?”

“Take-out.” Beckett doesn’t want to eat.  She’s not hungry. But Lanie will notice and nag and fuss so she might as well forestall that too.  “Pizza?”

“Okay.”

Pizza ordered, Lanie refills her glass and the two drops that’s all that’s needed to top off Kate’s.  She doesn’t comment on the lack of consumption.  Conversation moves to killer heels and kick-ass outfits for a while till the pizza arrives and Lanie thinks that Kate is off guard again.  She starts down a new line while they’re eating.  Well, Lanie’s eating.  Kate is still nibbling at her first slice, Lanie observes.

“Why’re you not eating?”

“Big lunch.”

“You’re lying to me,” Lanie singsongs. “I know you didn’t have lunch.”

“Did too.”  It’s petulant and she knows she sounds like a toddler.  She’s been caught out.

“Did not.  Esposito told me.”

Beckett changes course.  “Wasn’t hungry.”

“And how long have you been not hungry?  I’ve seen sticks with more curves than you.”

“Coupla days.”

Lanie blows her a raspberry. “Girl.  Are you forgetting I’m an ME?  That means I’m a doctor.  And I tell you you’re one step off my examining table.  You’re so thin if you bend over you’ll snap like a twig.  How much weight’ve you lost?”

“Don’t know.”  The last time someone asked that it was Castle.  And it triggered all his protective instincts and turned her into a pity project.  She conceals another wince.

“You better start eating those bear claws Writer-Boy brings you before you blow away on a mild breeze.”

There’s a very slight pause before Beckett says, “Yes Mom,” in a tone laden with attitude.

“Speaking of Writer-Boy, where’s he been?  Espo said he’d not been in for a coupla days.”

Beckett shrugs.  “Dunno.”

“Well, if you don’t put on some weight I’ma gonna come round and smack him for not feeding you.”  Lanie’s watching Kate keenly.  She sees the brief flick of emotion over her face, swiftly wiped away.  “That man’s supposed to look after you, not watch you starve.”  Another flick.

“I can look after myself, Lanie.  I’m all grown up.”

“Girl, from the way you’re behaving, that’s exactly what you ain’t.  ‘N if you don’t start looking after yourself, I’ll be meeting you professionally.”  Lanie makes a mental note to talk to Ryan and Espo first thing tomorrow.  “Now you eat.”  Beckett forces down the remnants of her slice.  “And another one.  And stop making faces at me.”

“Bully,” sulks Beckett.  But she eats.  A second slice, and under Lanie’s piercing glare, a third.

While her mouth is full, Lanie restarts interrogation.

“Now.  About this break-up.”  Beckett really does not want to go there.  “How come you didn’t tell me you were getting your freak on?  Specially if the sex was that good.  You gotta share, Kate.”

“Didn’t last long enough.  Not worth mentioning.  I don’t wanna talk about it.”

“Maybe you should let Writer-Boy console you.  ‘M sure he’d be happy to.  Bet he’s good in bed.”

“I don’t think so.”  It’s too quick and too defensive and too sharp and too hurt, and Lanie’s on it like a starving piranha.

“Kath-er-ine Beckett!  Have you been getting it on with Writer-Boy?”  But Lanie doesn’t sound quite as surprised as she should.

“It’s over, Lanie.  It was fun while it lasted but we’re done.”  Beckett looks hard at Lanie, but Lanie’s not giving anything away.  “And I don’t want to talk about it.  At all.”  Beckett pulls composure round herself like insulation and sips her wine.

Lanie eyes Beckett over her own wine.  She thinks that Kate should talk about it.  Everything.  But she’ll settle for _anything_.  Kate looks to her like she’s on the edge of breakdown.  She’d suggest therapy, but that’s a waste of time, been there, done that, been told quite firmly to get lost.  But Kate’s her best friend.  She’s Kate’s only close friend.  Either way, she has to say something.

“You don’t look like you’re over it.”  Pause.  “Nor does he.”

“ _When did you see Castle?_ ”  Lanie realises she’s just made the biggest mistake of their friendship.  Kate’s eyes are suddenly emerald hard and her expression would cut diamond.

“Today.”

“I see.”  And she does.  She sees that she can’t even trust her friends to be on her side.  “And he asked you to come and fight his corner.”

“No.  He asked me to make sure you weren’t self-destructing.  He really cares about you, girl.”

“Well, I’m not self-destructing and I don’t care about him.  So you can go and report that back.  Don’t feel you have to stay here to be polite.”  Her tone etches the words on the air.

Lanie collects her things together.  Clearly there’s no point in trying to mend this tonight.  But she’s not going to let it be.  She can see how Castle lost his temper: she’s pretty close to that herself. 

“You’re an idiot, girlfriend.  And this conversation is _not done_.” She lets herself out.

Beckett doesn’t even look up when she goes.

Lanie texts Castle to tell him it’s been useless.  Later, she texts Esposito to tell him to make sure Beckett at least eats lunch.


	27. It's A Struggle

Castle, having decided what to do, as ever is not happy to have to wait.  After seeing her text, he’ll need to call Lanie in the morning, but it’s really too late now.  Anyway, her text is hardly encouraging.  No point borrowing more trouble; he feels bad enough already.  Another failing relationship, another set of friends he’s losing.  Unless he can mend it soon.

He’ll arrange a poker game for tomorrow, or the next night: as soon as he can.  Mayor, Commissioner, Montgomery.  When they’re loosened up on whiskey, he’s sure they’ll see things his way.  He’s very persuasive, when he needs to be, and besides, they’re already in his corner.  He drifts off to sleep, dreaming of Kate back beside him, wakes miserably when he rolls over with his arm out, expecting to find her there, but she’s not.

When he calls and extracts the story of the evening from Lanie, he’s more than a little worried.  Good point - singular: she said the sex was great.  He knew that. That’s no help.  Bad points: at face value, nearly everything else Kate said, except that Lanie says Kate’s lying to herself about all of it (maybe those are good points, then).  Absolutely disastrous point: Kate effectively threw Lanie out as soon as Lanie said she’d seen him.

That tells him that she’s walled herself off.  You’re either on her side, or his.  No room to be both.  And she’s systematically isolating herself from anyone who might break the walls down; only listening to people who tell her what she wants to hear.  She’s likely down to Ryan and Esposito now, and that’s pretty rocky after the other day.  _Here we go again_.  Half a step forward, ten steps back.  Just another day in the fucked-up life of Kate Beckett.  Just another fucked-up day in the love life of Richard Castle.  And going round to demand she sees him, forcing her to talk about things, still seems to be just about the worst idea he could execute.  He’s so very tired of waiting, and here he has to wait some more.  He can’t fix her.  Nobody but Kate can fix Kate.

* * *

 

Beckett circles round and around each day, shift, gym, case, nightmares: lather, rinse, repeat.  She’s functioning on a toxic cocktail of caffeine, stress and occasional Advil, forcing down the limited food that her stomach will bear, that will keep her on her feet and capable of doing her job and sparring in the gym, so she can say to herself she’s having three meals a day, taking her coffee from the old machine, not going near the new one.  She hasn’t broken down since the night she walked out the loft.  She’s stretched tight across the barbed wire of the pain she’s not admitting to.  The boys can’t get through to her.  Lanie can’t get through to her.  All she talks to them about is work.  She looks like hell, all of them can see it, and not one of them can make her listen to any sense.  Her nightmares alternate between her mother’s case and Castle making love to her, then rounding on her as a coward.  Her bed’s too empty, too cold, and she doesn’t have a single release valve for the pressure she’s under.  And still she won’t acknowledge that she made a mistake, that nothing’s fixed, that she can’t do it alone, that she wants him back.  None of that has been allowed to cross her conscious mind.

* * *

 

Lanie, Ryan and Esposito are sitting in a bar, plotting.  That’s not how they’d describe it, of course.  They’d call it _working out how to help a friend._   To wit, Beckett.  Even if she’s walled them all off, they’ll still look out for her.

“She’s only eating about half her lunch.”  It’s Esposito.  “And she’s still drinking that crap out the old machine.  Won’t go near the break room, won’t even get something from the coffee bar outside.  Haven’t seen a bear claw since we last saw Castle.  He’s really done a number on her.”  Esposito looks like shooting Castle might be a reasonable, and indeed highly desirable, option.

“Yeah,” agrees Ryan.  “She’s totally out of it.  All she talks about is work.  Dunno when she’s leaving, but she’s in before us and out after us and she’s spending every lunch hour in the gym.  If I see Castle he’ll regret it.”

“About that,” Lanie hesitates for a second.  She’s not previously discussed Kate’s private life with the boys.  But desperate times, desperate measures and all that. “Castle called me about her.  After you pair of hotshots wouldn’t speak to him.” The boys regard her coldly.

“You actually took his call?  Why’d you do that?  Thought you were Beckett’s best friend?”

“Because the first thing he said was that Beckett was self-destructing.  And she is.  That’s why we’re all here.  He’da told you that, if you’d taken the call.  Now, d’ya wanna know the rest or not?”  Rapid nodding.  “So I saw him the next day.  He looked like shit.  And _she_ walked out on _him_.  Not the other way round.”  Ryan and Esposito drop their eyes.  That was _not_ what they expected.  “So he asked me to make sure she was okay.  Not to hitch them back together, just to make sure Beckett was okay.  So I went round to see her and it’s clear she’s in the hole and she needs him.  But she won’t admit it and Castle told me she’s back running her mother’s case.”  There’s a shocked dual intake of breath.  Both men know what that means. “And then she threw me out when I said I’d seen him.”

“Oh shit.”  It’s Esposito.  He remembers what Beckett used to be like, before Castle intruded on all their lives.  “Whadda we do now?”

Lanie shrugs, and downs a slug of beer.  “Get ‘em back together?  Not sure how.  Not sure anyone can.  But you could start by not killing Castle if he does show up.” They nod.  “Might be worth calling him, in a coupla days, seeing if there’s anything you can do.  No point yet, and after you wouldn’t talk to him he probably doesn’t much want to talk to you.  Maybe she’ll see sense.”  Lanie doesn’t hold out any hope but there’s nothing much more to be done now.  “And for chrissake make sure she eats.”

* * *

 

On the third day, when Montgomery, prompted by Lanie, who is certainly not above staging an intervention if she thinks it necessary, takes a good look at Beckett, he immediately hauls her into his office and tells her that he’s sending her for a physical right now because she doesn’t look fit for duty.  And even if she passes it, if he doesn’t see her eating properly and preferably putting on weight he’ll require her to have another and if she doesn’t keep passing it she’ll go on medical suspension until she does.    And he _will_ be monitoring the results.

When she takes it, she passes the fitness elements, but only by the skin of her teeth.  It’s the worst set of stats she’s ever had.  Her shooting, on the other hand, is better than it’s ever been.  She’s a little concerned by that.  And the precinct physical examiner tells her that she’s several pounds underweight which in itself is not – yet - grounds for action but if she loses much more weight will be.  Since she doesn’t want suspended, and she can’t afford to fail a physical, she makes an effort to eat better.  It’s only marginally successful, but though she isn’t getting better, she doesn’t get any worse.  Nothing is going to stop her doing her job.  It’s all she has.  She tells herself it’s all she needs.

* * *

 

Castle’s successfully got the Mayor, Commissioner and Montgomery in for poker, finally, and by late on in the evening everybody’s nicely loosened up.  Castle’s taken some care to ensure he loses (but not too much) and all four men are in a pretty good mood.  Though in Castle’s case, only for a given value of good.   It’s time to begin.

“Need a bit of help with the current book.”  There’s a certain amount of _isn’t that what your other poker school is for_? but also a reasonable amount of nodding.  “I’m stuck with some of the procedural bits.”

Montgomery throws Castle a very sharp glance.  Um.  Maybe Montgomery hasn’t had as much to drink as Castle’d thought.  But the Mayor is more expansive, or possibly just a bit more soaked in whiskey, and falls right into the groove. 

“Ricky, Ricky.  Surely you can just ask your Detective?  Thought that was the whole point of being at the precinct?”

Castle affects an embarrassed expression, tinged with a glaze of boys-will-be-boys smarm.  “Well, she’s not too happy with me right now.”

“Whaddya do, Ricky?  Try to get her on a date?  _Not_ try to get her on a date?  Run your mouth?” 

He shrugs, all _I don’t know and who understands women anyway_.  Out the corner of his eye he can see Montgomery tense.  “Dunno.  But she’s not too keen on speaking to me right now.”

“Don’t you worry, Castle.” It’s Montgomery, slow drawl not hiding the force behind the words.  “I’ll make sure you get the best chance at what you want.”  That’s a statement with several implications, and Castle thinks that Montgomery means all of them.

* * *

 

Beckett’s sitting stonily at her desk, very rigidly focused on her screen and paperwork as she has been every day, when Montgomery summons her again.

“Where’s Castle got to, Beckett?  I haven’t seen him around for a couple of days.”

“I don’t know, sir.” There’s a distinct flavour of _and I don’t care either_.

Montgomery looks pointedly at her.  “Is there something wrong, Detective?”

“No, sir.  I think this shadowing business has come to an end.  I’m sure Castle’s got plenty material without needing to be here any more.”

“That’s not your decision, Detective.” It has the crisp note of command.  “It’s mine.  And apparently he hasn’t.  So I’m ordering you to call him when the next case comes in so that he can continue his research.”

“But sir…” She’s appalled.  How can Castle not have accepted his dismissal?  How dare he go above her head like this?  Surely he’s got the message when she hasn’t answered a single one of his calls or texts?  He’s made no attempts to see her. (Deep down she thinks it means he never cared.  If he’d really cared, he’d have tried.)

“No buts.  You know perfectly well that Castle in this precinct is good for the NYPD, which is good for the Twelfth, which is good for me.  So, shadow, or suspension.  And when you come off suspension, Castle will still be shadowing you.  Your choice, Detective.”  It’s no choice at all.  Homicide is her life.

“Yessir,” she says dully.

“And, Beckett, you will be courteous to him.  You will not ignore his calls, forget to inform him of a new case, or fail to answer his texts.  You will behave as the professional detective of the NYPD that I consider you to be.  Do I have to make that an order or do you understand?”

“Yessir.  I understand.”  She’s utterly defeated.

After she’s left, closing the door with aggravated care, Montgomery sighs at her intransigence and picks up the phone. 

“Okay, Castle.  I’ve done my bit.  You’ll be back in when the next case drops.  Up to you after that.”

Castle’s hugely relieved.  Poker school buddies have their advantages.


	28. Worlds Away

When the call comes in from an upmarket hotel, Beckett considers briefly the possible cost of disobeying Montgomery, but decides it’s not worth it.  Suspension without pay is never worth it.  And he made it clear to her that failure to include Castle was not an option. She reluctantly unblocks Castle’s number and calls it.  She’s unutterably relieved when he doesn’t answer and she can leave a terse voicemail telling him simply murder and an address.  No greeting, no sign-off.  With luck, he won’t even notice it’s rung.

This one is definitely not what she’d have wanted.  It’s a wedding party, and the victim is a bridesmaid, choked, one earring ripped out.  Beckett’s not exactly enthused about investigating around love’s young dream.  It’s a bit ironic, in the circumstances.  However, her well-worn cynicism should cut through the slushy romantic surface.  There’ll be plenty emotions that have nothing to do with love under there, and she’ll find all of them.  It’s a bit of a shame for the bride, though, she seems a pretty nice, normal person, and she’s looking at her groom with her heart in her eyes.  Beckett chokes off that line of thought before it can go places she doesn’t want to think about.  It’s a case.  And a new case means she doesn’t have to think about anything else.

When she catches up with Ryan and Esposito, it seems that death came between 3 and 5 am. 

“Where’s Castle?” asks Ryan.  Esposito kicks him, not gently.

“No idea.  I’d’ve thought this would be right up his alley.”  Bitterness edges every word.  She doesn’t want him there.  But she won’t lay that out in public.

“He heard it was a wedding and got cold feet,” smirks Ryan.

 _Whatever_ , thinks Beckett, _at least he’s not here.  All this business about still needing to research was just jerking me around.  He never really cared._ She moves on to the next matter.  Another piece of wedding oddity: the vic had introduced the happy couple.  She files that for later and continues.  Five minutes later there’s a recognisable and unwelcome voice apparent.  It sounds offensively confident of its welcome.  No welcome here.  She ignores the major chord ringing _he came, he came_ in her head.  She doesn’t want him there.  She especially doesn’t want him there making nice with Ryan and Espo, who both seem to be perfectly happy to have him back.  They can keep him.  She pulls on her Detective Beckett face and turns around, says _hey_ as professionally as she can manage.  The flare of light in his eyes nearly breaks her, but she can do this: keep him at a distance, pretend she doesn’t care.  At least until she’s out of sight.  It’s pity.  Just pity. 

Castle’s predictably, irritatingly enthusiastic.  And he’s jabbing at her about how there’s not a woman alive who doesn’t think about her wedding day, how she can’t tell him she’s never torn a picture out a wedding magazine.  Well, she can.  She once thought she might get married, but Sorensen chose his career and she chose hers.  She’s never torn a picture out.  She says so.  She’s never even bought a wedding magazine.  Likely she never will.  Castle thinks she’s lying, and says so.  He can think what he likes.  She doesn’t care what he thinks.  But without her noticing, the familiar teasing makes her world a very little better.  Until he asks who the unlucky bride is – and then answers his own question.

“- Kyra?”

“Rick?” 

And she sees the way he looks at the bride and dies a little because he used to look at her like that.  He looked at her like that five minutes ago.

“You two know each other?”

“That would be an understatement.”  Ah. That sounds like more than a casual conquest.  Here’s a problem she didn’t expect.  She squashes down a flare of pain (no reason for pain.  She broke it off for good reasons.  They were good reasons.  They were.) and concentrates on how this could be an issue for the investigation. Castle and the bride are catching up on what sounds like several years of absence, and when it’s time to go to the morgue he doesn’t want to come.  He’s staying back to talk to the bride.  It hurts far more than it should.  _You broke up.  Remember?  You don’t want him._   It doesn’t stop the ache.

* * *

 

Castle had been somewhat preoccupied when his phone had rung, researching how to escape being duct-taped to a chair.  The familiar ring-tone that has always meant Kate, meant a new case, and today means that he can open a new campaign to get her back, make her _see_ , was the biggest incentive he could have had to get out of it.  Even if the message is couched in a massively discouraging tone, he’s back in.  He knows Kate is only pretending she’s coping, he knows that it’s only a matter of time before she falls apart: he’s had some discreet information from each of Lanie and Ryan and Espo, careful spies in the front line of this secret war he’s waging.  But even so he is absolutely not prepared for how she looks when he sees Kate.

She’s stretched thin, cheekbones delineated with the pinpoint precision of a laser, dull eyes limned with sleeplessness.  Yet still she’s managing to do her job, decisive tones, the hard clack of heels on floor.  Under it, though…Ah yes.  He can see straight through this facade.  Under it all, she’s collapsing.  And it’s clear no-one’s been able to stop her.  He wants to go to her, hold her close, promise that he’ll never leave her again, whatever she says or does it won’t stop him.  But now is not the time, not when she’s doing her job.  He rags on her a little, to see whether there’s any Beckett left.  Not much.  He’s about to go further when it occurs to him that he doesn’t know anything about this case.

“Who’s the unlucky bride?” And then he sees a very familiar shape and when the bride turns slightly it’s – “Kyra?”

“Rick?”

It’s Kyra.  Who walked away and left him all those years ago and now she’s _here_ and suddenly there is so much emotion scrambling his head right now that he cannot handle it.  The only two women he’s ever really been in love with and they’re both here and neither of them is with him.  But right now, Kyra is the safer option, because if he stays around Kate any longer with her in this state he will do something protective and therefore unforgivable, like pick her up and kiss her and at the end of the day drop her in a cab and take her home before she collapses.  Which, given the way she’s looking from him to Kyra and back again, is nearer than he thought.  She looks suddenly devastated.  That’s…interesting.  Especially as otherwise she’s doing her level best to ignore him.  He declines a visit to the morgue, and watches as Kate’s stiff back walks away.  But there’s so much to catch up on with Kyra, without all the subtext and unspoken complications that dog his every interaction with Kate.  Kyra’s so easy to talk to.  And it’s nice to talk to a woman who actually, uncomplicatedly, non-sexually, likes him.  It makes him feel secure.  He ignores the little voice in his head that says _this is a_ _bad idea, Rick_.  He’ll catch up to Kate at the precinct, just a little later.  It won’t matter if he’s not at the morgue.  And deep inside, a tiny, shameful part of him thinks that if she sees him with someone else she might realise that she still wants him.  Might be jealous.  Might be hurt.  Just like he’s hurting.

* * *

 

Beckett doesn’t want to see Lanie, (today seems to be her day for having to see people she’d rather not) but professionalism wins out.  She needs to know the facts around the death.

Naturally, Lanie wants to know where Castle’s got to.  Of course she does.  Lanie’s on his side.  Well, the latest news should shut her up.

“Castle’s got a history with the bride.”

“Ancient, modern or sexual?”  Lanie is watching Beckett very closely, making sure it’s not noticed.  Looks to Lanie like Kate’s not liking this at all.  Hmm.  This could be what she needs, a bit of competition.   That way she might realise what she could have.  Specially if it looks like someone else might get it.  “You okay with that?”

“Sure.  Why wouldn’t I be?”  Lanie hears the steely self-control.  And the misery behind it.  But Beckett’s gone before there’s any chance to try to say anything.  Like _I don’t believe you, girlfriend._

* * *

 

Castle shows up at the precinct later, much to Beckett’s annoyance.  He’s wistfully romanticising about Kyra.  Seems she was the one who got away.  Left him.  She can relate to that.  Bet that didn’t happen to him often.  She subsumes everything in focus on the case, ignoring Castle as far as possible.  It’s fairly easy, since he’s clearly lost in memories.  She tells herself that’s good, and blocks out the continuous pain in her chest.  Since Castle doesn’t seem inclined to do the decent thing and leave, she does.

As soon as she’s gone, Castle’s over at Ryan’s desk.  “What the hell have you been doing,” he bites out.  “You were supposed to _look after_ her.  I’ve seen corpses on Lanie’s slab with more life in them.”

Ryan looks back tiredly.  “You’re hardly one to criticise.  If you couldn’t _look after her_ , even when you were sleeping with her, then how’m I supposed to?  I can’t force food into her.  I can’t tell her to go home. She’s senior to me, not the other way round.  We make sure lunch is on her desk.  We can’t make her chew and swallow.  We can’t stop her drinking the battery acid from the old coffee machine because she won’t touch the one in the break room.”  There’s an uppercut landed straight in Castle’s diaphragm.  He’s still choking on it as Ryan continues,  “We can’t stop her.  Neither could you.  So shit or get off the pot, Castle.  Go after her, fix this fuck up, or walk away.  But whatever you do, do it soon.”

It’s the most he’s ever heard Ryan say in one go.  And every single word salts his wounds.  He goes back, trying to ignore the hornet sting of guilt that tells him he should have followed Kate to the morgue earlier.

* * *

 

Castle shows up again, clearly expecting to follow Beckett around just like he used to.  And unless she wants suspended, she has to let him.  But she doesn’t have to be anything more than coldly polite.  The car ride back to the hotel to meet Ryan and Esposito is notable for its silence.  Beckett’s trying to concentrate on the case, Castle’s trying to sort out the mess of emotion in his head.  Neither of them are successful.  Neither of them try to talk about anything.

At the hotel Beckett goes straight for Esposito and Ryan, who’ve been cross-referencing the witnesses.  Seems they’ve lost one, a groomsman.  That’s a good reason to think they might have a suspect.  And then they realise that there were lots of video cameras around so that guests could  be their own Candid Camera producers, so they don’t even need to rely on the CCTV.  And it pays off, astonishingly.  One guest was clearly more Stanley Kubrick than Alan Smithee and has filmed the best man’s entire pre-wedding speech, quite nicely if you like that sort of thing, but most crucially it clearly shows the victim taking a phone call during the speech (very rude) and leaving. When they track the call, it’s from a dealer.

Beckett manages to lose Castle, not accidentally, and makes her way to the elevators to go and study the crime scene again.  It becomes extremely uncomfortable when she finds that the bride is in there too.  She’s tiny and pretty and cute, and worst of all she’s nice.  Normal.  In fact, she’s everything that Beckett is not, except they’re both brunette.  And she’s still in a wedding dress.  Beckett’s toe-curlingly embarrassed to be there at all.  She’s not interested in Castle’s past.  Or his present.  And especially not his future.  She can feel the sidelong glances from the little bride. Clearly she knows about Nikki Heat.  Clearly she’s speculating, just like the rest of the world. And finally it comes:  Castle only dedicates books to people he really cares for.  Yeah right.  Cares so much he didn’t even try to come round.  Not that she wanted him to.  She’s doing just fine without him.  And if he wants to moon around after his ex, well, then he won’t be annoying her.  When the elevator opens she escapes as fast as she can without actually running.

They’ve picked up the dealer that the vic was using.  Oddly, she’d bought roofies.  What does a woman want with a date-rape drug?  While Beckett’s on her way back through the hotel, Castle trailing behind her making unhelpful comments that all women normally have to do is ask to get sex, (or at least that’s the summary as she pretends to ignore him, ignore the subtext) they run into the bride’s mother.  Or, more likely, the about-to-be Mother-In-Law-From-Hell.  However many years Castle hasn’t been with the bride, it’s absolutely clear the woman hated him on sight and hasn’t seen a single reason to change her view since.  She’s astoundingly rude.  Beckett’s never heard anything like it.  Sure, she’s been sharp with Castle, and the break-up was pretty unpleasant, but this is pure vitriol.  She almost feels sorry for him, and when they’ve got past Mother Bitch she actually looks at him.

“Just imagine, if things had worked out you’d have been spending Thanksgivings with her.”

Castle had forgotten how much Kyra’s mother had disliked him.  It brings back all the memories of being college-aged again, one best-seller behind him and always worrying that he’d never be able to replicate it, never sure that he’d keep hold of the public acclaim, the success, the knowledge that the world liked him.  And never sure that he’d be able to keep hold of love.  He doesn’t let any of that show.  He’s a long-term success now.  The public loves him.  Everybody loves him.  Everybody except Kate.  And then Kate turns to look at him when Kyra’s mother (thank God) is gone  and she actually looks a bit sorry for him and then speaks to him without that frozen tone that she’s used ever since he forced his way back in and maybe there’s a small melt in the glacier of her facade.

Upstairs they discover their missing groomsman locked in a storage closet, coming down off a roofie dose.  He’s pretty mad at being drugged by the vic, says all a girl needs to do is ask.  So the best chance at a suspect is a wash-out.  When she’s found both the boys stuffing their faces and removed the food from them, Beckett sets them to checking up and gets on the phone herself.  She’s vaguely aware that Castle’s missing but that’s a relief.  His renewed proximity isn’t doing anything for her control.  She’s constantly, miserably aware of him.  If he really looks, he’ll see straight through her just like he did when she made the mistake of letting him in and then he’ll pity her even more.  And she can’t deal with pity.  Let him follow his pretty little ex.  She doesn’t care.  Really she doesn’t. 

Castle’s searching for Kyra.  Based on past principles, he thinks she’ll be in the last place anyone expects – and she is.  Hiding behind a mountain of wedding cake, and sneakily eating some of it.  It’s just like she used to be, before she left him.  He has to know why she left.  Was that because he wanted to protect her too?  But then she says that he was supposed to follow her.  How was he to know that?  He just accepted what she wanted.  He thought she meant it when she said she needed space, so he gave her it.  And she never came back.  Oh.  _Oh_.  And now he’s done the same again, with Kate.  Oh shit.  Now what?  What if giving Kate space and leaving her alone is, has been, exactly the wrong thing to do?  What if she expected him to show up?  Except Kate is not Kyra.  Kate doesn’t play come-and-find-me.  Kate just self-destructs instead.  She wouldn’t have let him see her.  And while all this is circling in his completely scrambled brain Kate walks in and interrupts what, from her expression, looks like she thinks is a _moment_.  This situation just goes from bad to worse.  He follows her back to the car and the precinct, in the same silence as earlier, for the same reasons.

In the elevator Beckett is struggling to maintain her shell, not to ask all the questions she has.  Like _what was she to you?  What **is**_ _she to you?_  And other, similar, irrelevancies.  But definitely not _why have you come back_? 

Castle says, entirely unexpectedly, “We met at college.  We were together nearly three years.”

“I didn’t ask.”

“Yeah.  You were not asking very loudly.”  He looks ready to cry.

“Tough breakup?”

“It was a long time ago.”  From the tight jaw and almost-damp eyes it’s just as well.  Clearly there’s still something there, at least on Castle’s side.  That thought hurts.  She goes home as soon as she can to block out the pain. 

At her desk at home, trying to cover her mother’s case, Beckett’s in fact trying to squash down how   much seeing Castle had hurt, how much the way he’d looked at the bride had hurt.  It doesn’t work.  Slowly, through a long evening and into the night, she unpicks a layer of her own feelings.  She pushed him away, because she didn’t dare get close.  And now she’s hurt because she got what she told herself she wanted, drove him away, and unsurprisingly he’s finding some sort of comfort from someone else, without all the baggage.  There’s only so many times she can push someone away until they don’t come back.  That point’s long been reached, she thinks.  She gives up and goes to bed and for the first time since the night she walked out she cries herself to emptiness.  She’s not expecting to sleep much, not wrong.  And when she does she dreams of Castle walking away with the bride.


	29. On My Own

Nothing’s any better in the morning, and the acid on the burn comes when the boys, grinning, read her the dedication of Castle’s second book.  Of course she’d seen it before, but she’d not known the subject then.  She forces the thought away, notices absently that Castle’s not shown up yet, and turns to the case notes.  Suddenly she remembers that the groomsman’s key card was missing – he couldn’t get into his room.  She’s just starting on the sentence “Where was the key card?” when Castle comes running in bursting with the same idea and they say it simultaneously.  For a brief moment everything’s right, and they’re heading for the hotel and talking about the case and it’s very nearly normal, for a while, like it used to be before...before everything.

The key card takes them into the groomsman’s room, which leads through to the groom’s room.  So what’s their vic doing wanting the groom’s bedroom?  There’s all sorts of possibilities, but this is a murder so of course only the least salubrious is likely.  And when Beckett finds the missing earring on the floor, tucked against the bedpost, stained with blood, it’s not looking at all good for the groom.  He’s taken in to interrogation.

Beside her in interrogation, Castle’s very tense.  She can feel aggression flowing off him.  That’s not normal.  Then again, this is the guy who’s about to marry his ex, for whom Castle clearly has unresolved feelings.  Marry her, that is, if Beckett doesn’t lock the groom up for murder first.  She hopes that Castle can keep himself under control.  She’s having enough problems with her own emotional control without Castle losing it.

It starts going wrong for Castle as soon as it looks like the groom has cheated on Kyra.  How could someone do that, get it on with the bridesmaid while still intending to marry the bride the next day?  Kyra doesn’t deserve hurt like that.  He knows he has issues around unfaithfulness that are part of what’s driving his anger.  But it’s also all around his feelings for the two women who’ve walked away from him, one who wanted him to follow and one who doesn’t.  Probably.

He’s having considerable difficulty separating the unsatisfactory ending of his long affair with Kyra, and the pain he never fully dealt with when she went; from the unsatisfactory beginning, middle, and possibly end of his relationship and very short affair with Kate, and the current pain which he isn’t dealing with at all because he’s still trying to work out how to get Kate back.  It’s all mixed up.  Finally resolve Kyra, get closure.  Finally solve Kate, get opening.  Kyra, Kate, Kate, Kyra.  It’s all muddled: he can’t separate the two.

The interrogation’s beginning and he needs to concentrate on maintaining some control. 

The groom asserts that the vic came on to him.  That they’d had a fling before – long before – he got with the bride, but that he’d thrown the victim off and thrown her out.  Castle’s obvious disbelief winds the groom up and in another moment Beckett’s interrogation is going down the pan as the groom accuses Castle of wanting the bride and it turns into a shouting match.  It might even be true, from what Beckett can tell.  But when the groom refuses to answer anything more till Castle’s ejected, she really doesn’t have a choice.  She has to finish interrogating him and she can’t hand it over to Ryan and Esposito.  It’s clear Castle feels she’s betrayed him by sending him out, but what else can she do?  She finishes alone, but there’s no killer information and she hasn’t enough to hold the groom.

Castle is predictably furious.  He’s never really understood that real cops need real, hard evidence to hold a suspect, and if she doesn’t have that – and she doesn’t - she can’t hold him.  He’s taken a real dislike to the groom, and that and his…attachment…to the bride (or possibly the attachment has caused the dislike) has completely impaired his normal ability to theorise.  He’s biased.  She’s surprised how much that upsets her.  She’s used to him covering all the bases, and a few that aren’t even on the radar.  But here there’s a hole as big as Manhattan in his thinking: he can’t see that his cute little ex is just as much a suspect as everyone else.  She has to call him on it.  It’s exquisitely painful, after the short return to normal of earlier in the day it’s all gone to hell again in interrogation and now she’s going to have to rip it all open.  But the case comes before anybody’s wishes.  She can’t and won’t subjugate solving this or any other case to Castle’s hurt feelings.

Castle’s miserable, upset and angry.  He lost it in interrogation and got sent out like a child to the naughty step.  He used to have control, used to have game.  For the last ten days he hasn’t had much of either.  For the last twenty four hours he hasn’t had any.  He can’t sort his head out and now Beckett’s let the groom go.  Worst of all, Beckett’s coming up to him with an expression he _knows_ means nothing good and then she tells him he’s too close to the case.  Too close to Kyra.  Then she tells him that Kyra’s just as much a suspect as anyone else and she, Beckett, knows that he, Castle, is too close to her, because if he wasn’t he’d have a story about how Kyra could have done it. He has to stay away from Kyra till the case is done.  And she’s right about both matters.  But he can’t get past his history with Kyra. The longer this case goes on, the more tangled his thoughts become.  He doesn’t want Kyra, he wants Kate.  But Kyra’s sweet, and prepared to talk to him, and Kate isn’t.  Especially now he’s lost it and messed up her interrogation.  He knows that Kate’s work is the keystone of her control, and messing up that is indefensible. 

He needs to resolve how he feels about Kyra, close that chapter of his story, before he can move on:  he needs to separate the two different sources of his current insecurities.  So when Kyra calls him, upset, wanting his company, he accepts.  He’ll try for closure.  And anyway, at least there’s someone who’ll accept him at face value, accept him being protective and kind.  Someone who’ll prop up his battered self-belief. 

* * *

 

They meet on the same roof they used to, twenty-some years ago.  For a while, reminiscing about what they used to do there, who they used to be, it’s all safe and comfortable.  The history begins to drain the poison from Castle’s wounds, brings everything into perspective.  Kyra’s still lovely, but he’s grown up.  Grown away.  It’s all sorting itself out in his head, until she tells him that the groom admitted that the bridesmaid had come to his room.  It’s clear that Kyra’s desolated by it.  All Castle’s dislike of the groom, all his instincts to protect and suppressed need to fix things that he hasn’t been able to use with Kate, reassert themselves, merge into an overwhelming need to comfort Kyra.  And so he pulls her into a consoling hug, intending to stop there, but when she looks up at him with tears pooling he leans down to kiss it better.

As soon as his lips touch hers he knows it’s the wrong kiss.

It’s the wrong woman.  She’s too soft and too cute and too nice and too small.  She doesn’t feel right against him, she doesn’t fit properly in his arms.  All the confusion of the past days drops away and for the first time since he saw Kyra again his mind is clear.  He shouldn’t be here.  He’d truly loved her once, but in the intervening years, two marriages and one child he’s changed.  In the last year and a half, he’s changed far more.  And in the last six weeks, he’s changed beyond all imagining.  She isn’t what he wants, she isn’t what he needs.  Most importantly, she isn’t the woman he loves.  He’s finally over Kyra.

He raises his head, holds her for a moment, but they both know that this isn’t where either of them needs or wants to be.

“Guess this is it, Rick.  We can’t go back in time.  We’ve both moved on, found other people.  I’ve got Greg and you’ve got your Detective.”  Castle makes a small pained noise.  If only he did.  “Time for me to go home, Rick.”

* * *

 

Back in his loft, late in the evening, Castle’s painfully working through some self-analysis, gradually unpicking his residual issues after Kyra left him from the new ones which all stem from Kate.  It’s not what he’d call an enjoyable experience.  But if he doesn’t unravel how he feels, then he’s never going to be able to deal with how Kate might feel.  So slowly he disentangles the threads. 

Firstly, Kate is not Kyra.  That’s important.  Well, _duh_.  It’s important because Kate won’t react like Kyra did.  She’s older, experienced, and damaged.  So treating her like a cute nineteen-year old was never going to work.  She’s an adult.  That means not making decisions for her, however much he wants to.  He processes that he was wrong not to let Kate go home when she’d wanted to, to trick her into staying, even if he thought he’d done it for the right reasons. 

Secondly, Kate’s life experiences mean that she doesn’t rely on others.  (he winces at the psych-speak.  But he knows it’s true.)  Kyra at least had a family (even if it does include the mother from hell) to support her.  Kate hasn’t had anyone.  She doesn’t expect support, she does expect to be let down.  So it’s hardly surprising that she didn’t just open up and tell him all her secrets and lean on him.  Trust takes time.  He needs to give her time.  But that doesn’t mean he shouldn’t push a bit.  Pushing, that long dark night at Kate’s apartment, actually wasn’t as much of a mistake as he’s been thinking.  It’s the only time Kate opened up at all.  And then he let her close down again because he didn’t ask anything more when he had the chance, and then when he did ask she was already spoiling for a fight and it was gasoline on the fire.  He’d let Kyra walk away because he wasn’t willing to take a chance and push for what he wanted.  He’s coming damn close to doing the same again here, but this time he’s got time to correct it. 

And finally, trying to protect someone whose whole life is defined by protecting others is just plain stupid, not to mention patronising.  There’s a balance between support and protection, and he needs to keep on the right side of it.  Kate is not Alexis, not his mother, not a college kid.  She might need help but she doesn’t need mothering.  Smothering.  She needs a partner, not a parent.

So.  Don’t protect her.  Don’t make decisions for her.  Do push, carefully.  In fact, exactly the opposite of how he behaved with Kyra.  Of how he was behaving with Kate.

He’d better sleep on that.  It’s been a high-tension day and that might be skewing his thinking.  Review in the morning, and if it’s still right, then start to act.  He's made enough mistakes through acting without thinking it through carefully first.  He doesn't need to make any more.

* * *

 

Over in her own apartment, Beckett is also doing some thinking.  Partly about the current case, partly about her mother’s case, partly about Castle.  None of it is either particularly satisfactory or particularly productive. 

The current case is not going well.  It wasn’t the groom: everything tells her that.  It wasn’t the missing groomsman: he was out of it on roofies.  And no matter what she’d said to Castle, there was no way it was the cute little bride.  She’d known that even when she told Castle he was too close.  She shies away from that thought, not willing to hear the small voice telling her that she’d only told him to stay away from the bride because _she_ didn’t like how close they were.  In fact, she was jealous.  She doesn’t like that thought.  _She_ broke it off.  She can’t be jealous.  She adds that whole mess to the over-stuffed lockbox of thoughts she doesn’t like.

Then there’s her mother’s case.  That’s not going well either.  After that brief breakthrough (and that had been based on the information Castle had found – that’s another thought for the lockbox) she’s no further forward.  Familiar feelings of guilt and inadequacy surge up.  All her nightmares are back.  Talking about them hasn’t given her any control over them at all.  Except, of course, she isn’t talking about them.  It was just that once, which didn’t go near the underlying reason for them. And she hasn’t got even the temporary fix of sex to keep them away, let alone any more fundamental relationship where she could safely admit to them.  _Because you threw it away_ , whispers the annoying small voice.  She tells herself that it would all have ended the moment Castle saw his miniature ex anyway, and adds it to the lockbox.

That brings her to her other problem.  Castle.  That’s just such a confused  mess of wrongness she doesn’t even begin to know where to start.  She broke it off, because he was overprotective and trying to make decisions for her.  Well.  That’s not quite true, is it.  She broke it off because she was scared to give it a chance.  Scared to get in deeper.  Yes, he was overprotective, but that was just an excuse.  If she’d tried, she could have dealt with that.  Anyway, he was only with her because he pitied her.  One night where he felt sorry for her because she was crying: that’s where it started.    One night where he felt sorry for her because of the nightmares and chose not to let her go home: that’s where it ended.    But that’s not exactly true either.  She chose to start it up, before dinner at Jean-Georges, and she chose not to call him on the protectiveness but just to break it off instead.

Whatever the truth, she broke it off, and it’s over.  Now she needs to get past it.  Him.  But having him follow her around is not helping.  Why’s he bothered coming back, anyhow?  She’s perfectly certain he’s got enough material for another five books.  It doesn’t make sense.  It can’t be to see her, because if he’d cared about that he’d have tried earlier.  _You wouldn’t even have opened the door if he had tried_ , whispers the small voice.  She hates seeing him with the ex.  _You’re jealous, girlfriend_ , says a voice that sounds rather too much like Lanie for comfort. _You want him back.  Better accept that you weren’t casual at all_.   Every time she sees him she remembers how good it was, how he made it all better, how he’d listened on that long dark night.  It’s all too messed up and unhappy.  She can’t untangle this knot of mixed-up feelings.  She wants him back.  But she doesn’t want him back if all he feels is pity.  And she’s too isolated, too locked down, too proud to show her feelings: too scared to talk about it.


	30. Those Who Fall

The surveillance photos from the night before are waiting for her early in the morning.  Every key person in the case is being watched, in the absence of any better evidence.  Eventually, something always pops.  And there it is.  Castle, in complete defiance of protocol, meeting up with the bride.  And kissing her.  Well, that’s Beckett shown the true position.  He’s not prepared to play by basic rules of investigation, not prepared to sidestep conflicts of interest, and he’s moved on.  Fine.  She can deal with this.  Just another expected let-down, just another day in her life.  She pulls down the shutters of her self-control, doesn’t so much as blink away a tear, gets another cup of battery acid coffee and carries on reviewing the surveillance of everyone else.  The last piece to complete the perfection of her day is that someone has been screwing with her chair.  She knows who that was, too.  She leaves a note for Ryan or Esposito to finish the financial records search on the victim, check when she got into NY, and goes to the gym to beat out her emotions on the punchbag before she takes them out on the first person who annoys her.  It takes her a while.

When Castle gets in, it’s clear that Kate – though she’s very Detective Beckett right now - is angry with him, he just doesn’t know why.  Uncomfortable guilt seeps in: he knows he shouldn’t have seen Kyra, and every word Beckett spits out makes him feel worse.  Eventually, just like he’s six again, he admits that he’d seen Kyra last night.  When Beckett simply says icily that she knows, and shows him the surveillance photos, which (of course, given his luck to date) include him leaning down to kiss Kyra, his first reaction is to think that Beckett was having him followed.  Of course that’s a stupid idea, and it’s shot down in instants.  Beckett reiterates that Kyra’s a murder suspect and _Kyra’s_ the one being followed.  There’s a clear implication of _why should I want you followed?_ It’s all gone to hell in sixty seconds.  He says pathetically that they just kissed, but before he can explain that it was goodbye – and would Kate believe that anyway, because it doesn’t look like she’ll believe anything he says right now – Esposito comes in, already talking, double-takes, stops, and asks if everything’s okay.  Talk about perfect timing.  And as Castle says _No!_ Kate says _Yes_ in a tone that means it certainly is not okay but there’s no way she’s going to talk about it, and immediately moves on to Esposito’s new findings.

The victim was in NY a day early, but no-one knows why.  She couldn’t pay for her flight, but spent $3,000 on the weekend.  No money in her account, maxed-out credit cards, how’d she manage it?  She had cash, though it’s not clear where from.  How could she pay for the dress?  Beckett knows exactly how expensive bridesmaids’ dresses are, she’s paid for them six times, and says so.  If the vic had no money, how could she have managed to be a bridesmaid?  Unless someone else paid.  There’s a money trail to be found, and resolving anything outside the case will have to wait. 

They get digging.  Castle can’t do anything but sit and watch, trying to find the words to explain what happened so that he can start to mend matters with Kate.  From the way she isn’t looking at him, the Iron Curtain that’s pulled down behind her eyes, it’s fairly obvious that she thinks he’s putting the moves on Kyra, that he’s moved on from her.  It’s also fairly obvious that it’s not making her happy, which – he unobtrusively looks a little more closely – might just be a major understatement.  However much she’s pretending she doesn’t care, oh, she clearly does.  There’s still something to work with there, if he can find the words, if she’ll listen.  Then it’ll be her turn to find some words, for her to open up, for him to listen.  He hopes.  There’s no way forward if they can’t talk.  He goes back to pondering what to do, what to say, not heartened.

Beckett and the boys are in full forward momentum.  The money trail is beginning to make sense.  The groom’s Uncle Teddy, all chubby bonhomie and _no I never knew the victim_ , had paid for the dress, given the bridesmaid cash, paid for a lot for her.  That’s an odd thing to do if he doesn’t know someone.  Why would he do that, even if he did know her – but then why lie about it? – unless he wanted something in return.  Follow the money, and while that’s happening, bring fat Uncle Teddy into interrogation to cool his heels, and get started on a warrant to search his room and possessions.

While Ryan and Esposito are executing the warrant and picking up the final breadcrumbs on the money trail, Beckett’s got the groom over to watch the interrogation.  He’s angry to find that she’s picked up good ol’ Uncle Teddy.  But then the groom picks a fight with Castle – at least that’s the other way round from last time – about the bride, and just before it comes to punches Beckett tells the groom what she suspects and he’s distracted.  It’s utterly sordid.  Good ol’ Uncle Teddy had been dipping into the groom’s trust fund to cover his trading losses, had to stop the wedding to prevent it being found out.  But when the bridesmaid couldn’t stop it, he killed her to stop her telling anyone what he’d done.  The bridesmaid’s camera in his luggage and the blood and DNA on his tiepin will ensure he goes down for it.

* * *

 

Beckett’s up at her desk finishing off the paperwork for today, pretending she isn’t watching the bride and Castle having a cosy confidential chat in the break room.  She’s perfectly okay if he’s going off with the bride now.  Just perfectly okay.  And when she finishes the papers she’ll go and be perfectly okay in perfect solitude at home.  When the bride bends to kiss Castle she’s sure it’s all settled.  But she kisses him on – the cheek?  Huh?  She turns away hurriedly as the bride comes out, detours by Beckett’s desk, smiles happily at her and murmurs, ”He’s all yours.”  Now Beckett’s utterly, hopelessly confused.  You don’t do pecks on the cheek if you’re getting back together.  Clearly the bride’s going back to her groom, but what’s that comment about?  She concentrates fiercely on her paperwork, so she can leave as soon as possible.  She can’t hold it together for much longer, and she needs to be home before she shatters.

Castle’s sitting in the break room, composing himself.  Even though he knows he doesn’t want Kyra, closing off that relationship takes him a moment or two to deal with.  He doesn’t want to go out into the bullpen till he’s completely calm.  The next thing he needs to do will take all his nerve, and likely all his self-control too.  He needs to get Kate someplace they can talk, without being tempted to avoid the conversation with fighting (likely) or sex (unlikely) or any other of the host of excuses both of them can manufacture to stay away from the truth.  That means somewhere in public, not the loft or Kate’s apartment.  How to get her there, though, is slightly more difficult.  He could convince everyone to come for a drink, and prime them to slide away, leaving him with Kate.  But that seems entirely too close to trickery for comfort, and he thinks that this is a time when only complete honesty, from  both of them, is going to make this go in any way well at all.  Maybe he should just ask her to come with him, but flat rejection in front of the entire bullpen followed by a loud argument is probably not a good idea.  There’s always the dreaded _Kate, we need to talk_ route.  That might work, if only because she’ll pretend it doesn’t matter to her, make some completely incorrect assumptions about what he’s going to say, and come along so that she can validate her own views that he’s walking away.  It seems a bit deceptive, though.

He’s still sitting thinking in the break room when he notices the signs of Kate packing up to leave: papers being put away, computer switching off, fumbling for her purse and coat.  She doesn’t seem to be as together as usual, and she still looks dreadful, insofar as anyone that beautiful can look dreadful.  Perhaps simple and honest is best: take the elevator with her and suggest a drink when they get to the bottom.  It can’t turn out any worse than any other idea.

So that’s what he does: watches carefully and then ensures that he slips into the elevator behind Kate just before the doors close.  She won’t look at him, doesn’t talk to him; she’s shielded in multiple layers of reserve.  As more cops get in, he’s perforce being moved closer and closer to her and her withdrawal becomes deeper and deeper.

Beckett’s swathed herself in her protective shell to be able to make it home without breaking down.  The last thing she needed was Castle in the same elevator.  She huddles into herself and doesn’t speak, doesn’t look up.  The floor is suddenly the most interesting view in the known universe.  As the elevator fills up with what seems like the entire precinct all trying to squeeze in and go home at once, Castle’s being shifted nearer and nearer to the corner she’s cramped into.  It’s absolutely inevitable, given the day she’s had, that the last cop cramming in shunts everybody sideways and she ends up squashed against Castle, face practically in his neck, feeling the lift of his hands either side of her as he tries to stabilise himself against the elevator walls.  It’s far too close to an embrace for her control, even if it’s entirely accidental and meaningless.  She turns her head away from the mass of people, hunches her shoulders and slumps slightly so she isn’t in view.  She’s embarrassingly close to tears.

Castle’s well aware of the discomfort Kate is feeling given the position he’s been forced into by the crowded elevator, but when he hears the particular catch of breathing that indicates suppressed female misery to the experienced ear, he can’t help but tighten his arms around her, very gently, so no-one in the elevator notices.  All that results is a slight shudder, no relaxation into him, no pulling away from him.  It’s the same static, unreacting misery that she’d displayed waking up from her nightmare, weeks ago.  He drops his arms.  He thinks Kate’s about a half-step away from complete meltdown.  The elevator doors are opening and the mass of end-of-day humanity is rushing for the door.  Castle doesn’t move until the elevator’s emptied and then steps away so that he can follow Kate out.  Her head’s down and she isn’t paying any attention to what’s around her.  It’s unpleasantly different from her usual focused cop awareness.  He keeps following her, until they’re far enough away from the precinct that whatever happens next is not going to become tomorrow’s water-cooler gossip.

“Beckett.”  He catches up the two steps to arrive next to her.  She doesn’t look round.  “Kate.” Still nothing.  He puts a hand on her shoulder, and when she neither looks up nor shrugs him away uses it to steer her inside the nearest handy coffee bar and into a quiet booth near the back.  He sits opposite her, orders for both of them.  She’s got the sides of her head in her hands, head bent, hair obscuring her face, and she’s completely unresponsive: no movement, no sound, nothing.  He waits quietly, and when the waitress brings coffee slides her cup between her elbows to under her nose.  She doesn’t touch it.  The silence stretches out, just like it has every time he’s tried to talk to her.  She never talks about anything, unless he forces it.  So.  Well.  _You want this, Rick, you need to start._ It’s clear Kate won’t.  It’s also clear that now she’s hanging on to numbness as the last protection she has to stop her collapsing.  If he had to wager, he’d bet that the lack of food and sleep, and all her unresolved issues, have finally caught up with her.  Even Kate, almost-unbreakable, diamond-hard Kate, can’t hold up under that sort of pressure for ever.

“Kate,” he says again.  “Kate.  You’re back to making assumptions about what I’ll say or do.  I thought we’d agreed you’d not do that.”  No reaction.  “I said I was staying around. That hasn’t changed, even if you tried to get rid of me.  I shouldn’t have left you to it, after you walked out, I should have followed you and talked to you.  And I’m not going to leave you to it now.”  He takes a gulp of his own coffee.  There’s no sign that she’s heard him.  “Let me tell you a story.  Once upon a time, there was a Homicide cop who was trying to solve her mother’s case.  And because she couldn’t, she was having nightmares almost every night.  Then someone offered her help with the nightmares she admitted to, but because she couldn’t give up control, couldn’t ask for help and didn’t believe she deserved a good relationship, she was unconsciously searching for an excuse to sabotage the offer, because she thought he’d let her down just like everyone else ever had.  And she very nearly managed to destroy it.”  He pauses.  She’s still hidden, but there’s a tremor in her shoulders.  “But that wasn’t what he wanted.”  He stops again, waits, estimates the amount of truth she can bear before breaking.  She still hasn’t touched the coffee.  He drinks some more of his.  It’s still hot.  There’s still plenty time.  “It wasn’t what he needed.”

“Kate.  There was never any chance I’d go back to Kyra, even if she’d have had me.  I don’t want her.  She’s in the past.  The surveillance photos...that was goodbye.”  The tremor in Kate’s shoulders becomes more pronounced, but there’s still no sound.

“We’ve both got this – each other - all wrong because we never talked properly.  Sex isn’t a substitute for talking to each other, but that’s what we’ve been doing.  Nearly every time we could have talked, we avoided it.  So can we just talk?  Please?”  He lets the silence string out.  Finally there’s a very minimal nod.  But suddenly he doesn’t know where to start.  Another mouthful of coffee covers the gap.

“We talked – a bit – about the nightmares,” he says softly. “But we didn’t talk about the cause, just the solution.  Tell me about the case, Kate.  Tell me why.” 

There’s another long stretch of silence.  When she begins, her voice is so quiet and broken he can barely hear her.  “You know the story.  Knifed in an alley for no apparent reason, ten years ago.  And I can’t find the killer.  I’m letting down my mother because I can’t solve it. ”  She hesitates, catches an agonised breath, stops again; to bolster up her self-control, he thinks.  Any other person would have been crying.  “But I found something more.  Just before that amnesiac.  It was a professional hit.  _But I still can’t get any further._ ” The torment behind the last sentence makes him ache to touch her, take the pain away.  “And the nightmares just keep coming.  I have to find the killer.  I have to stop letting my mother down.  Nothing else is that important.”  He doesn’t ask about the nightmares.  He knows about the nightmares.  She’s finished, for now.  Her head’s still down, coffee still untouched, probably tepid by now.  It’s his turn.

“I...wanted to help.  Wanted you to let me in.  But I didn’t give you enough time.  I always try to protect people, but it wasn’t – I shouldn’t have – you don’t need protected.”  It’s incoherent, but it’s honest.  He takes a breath, gathers up his nerve.  _Here goes._   “All the people I care about need protected.  Except you.”

And then she breaks.

It’s still silent, but there’s no doubt, from the shuddering, the movement of her hands across her face, that she’s finally fallen.  Finally spoken the core of her own fear, finally heard what he’s been trying to tell her, but never articulated, for weeks.  This soundless, desperate grief is not the way he’d hoped she’d take it.  Trivially, mundanely, he shifts her coffee, almost cold now, out from under her arms, signals for a replacement.  Small supports, in the face of a landslide.  She won’t leave now, he thinks, till she regains control;  can’t flee, because she won’t show her feelings to the world at large.  One last push, while she won’t leave.  He places both his hands around her face, not stroking her hair, not trying to turn her face to him, laps his thumbs over her wrists, her fingers still covering her face.  She doesn’t push him away.  She doesn’t pull him in.  One last effort.

“Kate,” he sighs.  “Your mother’s case is so important to you.   But I don’t think _casual_ is where you were.  Are.”  And breathe.  “It’s not where I was.  Am.”  Breathe again.  “I think we can do this better.”  And keep breathing, while he waits, as still and as soundless as she.


	31. Fall In Flame

All that’s audible is the harsh scrape of clawed-in breath; all that’s tangible are the cut-off shudders.  There’s still that excruciating effort to regain control.  He can’t read her.  Any ability to read her has been blocked by her pain.  He can’t push any more: nothing more to be said or done; it’s all out there.

Some time during this gap between worlds, fresh coffee has been put down.  He doesn’t move either hand to bring it closer.  If he breaks this moment, he feels, perhaps unreasonably, that there will never be a way back.  Now is all there is.

It’s his honesty that’s broken her, in the end.  She could have resisted anger, hurt, almost anything but truth.  _People I care about_.  Including her.  He’s been serious all along, and she’d been missing – ignoring – the signs.  She’s weeping, unable to stop the shaking of her shoulders or the slow run of tears.  But she can be silent.  She can still control that.  Even when his hands come up to cradle her face she can still control that.  And then his next words make clear that he’s seen right through her facade, seen further than she has, and she weeps harder, still silently.  Of course she isn’t – wasn’t – _casual_.  But she didn’t let herself know that until two nights ago.  Yet again he’s understood her before she’s understood herself.  His hands are still around her face: no pressure, no movement, no demands.

She’s too tired, too upset, too stressed for this: too many decisions to make.  She wants to be at home, stop having to confront things she can’t process right now, but it’s too much effort even to speak.  She’s not sure how she’d get home, she’s not sure she has the strength to stand.  It would be so easy just to let her control slip, give up and give in.  She still can’t move.  Here, in this empty space of time, she’s insulated from all her conflicts.  Once she moves, they’ll all come crashing back over her, and then she’ll have to do something, say something.  She doesn’t know what to do or say.  She doesn’t want to do or say anything, just to sleep.  No decisions necessary, if she’s asleep.  Imperceptibly, her tears are drying.  She’s re-establishing a small measure of physical control.  Mentally, she has no control at all.

He’s still cradling her face.  As he feels the shuddering recede, her breathing soften and slow, he takes a hand away to push the fresh coffee into range.  There are no more words, just small actions, to show support.  It takes yet more dragged out minutes before she brings her hands down, clasps them around the heat of the cup, tight-laces her fingers through the handle.  He can see how near she is to breaking strain in the white knots of her knuckles.  Time is running out.  He drops his other hand and, as if it were a blow, she jerks up and meets his eyes for the first time in hours.

“I can’t,” she says hopelessly, and drops her gaze.

“Can’t what?”

“Can’t give up my mother.”  This, he can deal with.  He’s had a lot of time to think that point through.

“Not asking you to.  I’m not asking to help now.  When – _if_ – you want help, ask then.”  And keep breathing, waiting for her answer to the question he isn’t asking.

“ ‘Kay.”  It’s sighed out, a long syllable of exhaustion.

“Why do you think you’d have to give up your mother?” A dangerous question.  But he’s got this far.

“People want more.  Too much. Want you to give it up.  Pity you for trying.”  That has the acid edge of experience and quotation.  He suspects that was Sorensen.  Irrelevant now.  He’s got this covered, too.  Adults have commitments.  Only children think commitments can be dropped for the next new toy.

“Would you expect me to give up Alexis?  Do you pity me for being a single dad?”  Her eyes shoot up, wide and focused for the first time since they sat down.

“No!”

“Then why should I pity you or expect you to give up something just as important to you?”  Finally he’s shocked her back to reality, out of the awful stillness.  There’s some personality back in her eyes.  She realises that there’s coffee between her hands, lifts it slightly shakily, takes a long drink.  “We’re not children, to drop everything for the next shiny new toy.  We’re both adults,” – there’s no quirk of an eyebrow at him like there used to be with a feed line like that - “we both come with baggage.  So what?  We can work around it.”  She’s staring at him.  “If…if…” He stops.  His rush of words halts on abrupt insecurity.  He goes back to the words from before.  “I think we can do this better, Kate.”

She’s dropped her eyes again.  He reaches over, slides both hands to cover hers, linked round the coffee cup.  Measuring out their chances in the temperature gradient of cooling coffee.   “Can we try to start over?”

She doesn’t know where to start with any of this.  It’s not pity.  He’s said she doesn’t need protected.  He’s really serious.  She’s never been casual.  So she just nods.  She’s too tired to talk further.  “I want to go home.  Just me.”

Castle nods too.  He hears everything she isn’t saying about her confusion and tiredness in the last two words.  “Okay.  Can I come see you tomorrow?”

“Precinct.  Paperwork.  If you want.”  She stands, supporting herself on the table edge.  Castle just manages not to reach out and steady her.  He  watches her going out the door and sees her get a cab.  This _no protection_ business is not easy.  He’d rather be escorting her home, or to his.  He’d rather be holding her, keeping her safe.  But if the price of being with Kate is _no protection_ , he has to pay it.  He sits, his own coffee at hand, suddenly remembers back to dinner when Alexis wanted to go away to college.  He hears Kate’s words in his head. _Gotta let her fly, or she’ll leave anyway._   As applicable to Kate as to Alexis.  Gotta let her fly.  He can do this better, if he just remembers that.

* * *

 

Beckett gets home and slumps into her couch, utterly wrung out from exhaustion and stress, overlaid with all the information she can’t process.  She should try to make sense of it all, apply cop logic, but she can’t.  Some timeless span later, she falls into bed and the abyss of restless sleep.  She dreams of Castle.  Not the lacerating nightmares of accusations of cowardice, not dreams of the frantic, spectacular, avoidance sex, just the man who held her through the nightmare, who’s laid his own feelings on the line, who’s said _you don’t need protected_.  And in the morning that’s what she remembers.  _You don’t need protected._   On that basis, maybe she can do this better.  Maybe they can simply start over.  She rolls over in bed and starts, painfully, to think honestly about her own feelings and actions, about what she really wants.

Easiest to start with what she _doesn’t_ want: pitied, protected, smothered, anyone who’ll clip her wings.  Equally, she’d never be happy with some lapdog who’ll just whimper _yes sweetheart_ and never challenge her at all.  So that’s relatively simple. 

More difficult: what does she want?  Which is not necessarily quite the same as what she needs.  Start there.  What does she need? Someone who’ll listen, and who’ll make her listen, won’t let her hide behind self-deception, no matter how harsh the truth is.  Who won’t let her push them away.

Hardest: what’s her responsibility for all this mess?  Well, where should she begin, out of that extensive list?  Telling herself it was casual, meaningless sex without ever looking at her real feelings and motives?  Inability to talk about things?  Or simply her astonishing talent for self-sabotage.  Ouch.  Her mother’s death was not her fault.  But she’s been punishing herself for it for ten years, she’d rather inflict the smaller agonies of destruction of anything that might be good, that might force her to make a choice, and pretend to deal with those than face up to the real pain around which she’s centred her life.  And that’s what she was doing.  Pretending she didn’t care, watching and waiting for an excuse to exit, hiding in her own little world.  She picked the fight that let her walk out.  She could have talked about it, explained her feelings, shown why she needs to keep fighting to find her mother’s killer.  Instead she’d run out like a frightened child.  _Time to grow up_.  Adults try to talk about it.  Children fight or run away.  Which is she going to be?

Back to what she wants.  Face up to the choice: does she want a serious relationship with Castle or no relationship at all?  Casual is not on offer.  He’s not casual.  He’s said so.  She’s not casual.  But she hasn’t.  Still hiding behind her mother’s case.  Sorenson had pitied her for it, and unspokenly resented it.  Castle just accepts it as part of who she is.  Help, he’d said yesterday, _if_ she asks.  No pressure, no more demands to be let in.  He’s got his baggage, his insecurities, just as she has hers.  Maybe if they accept each other’s baggage they can work around it.  Maybe…if they can talk about it.  If she can talk about it.  So far Castle’s done all the talking for both of them, and while he’s got her down cold, she has to put herself out there too.  She realises she’s made her decision.  She does want a relationship.  Baggage and all.  So they have to talk about how this works.  She hates talking about things, stripping off the layers.  But she can’t do less than he has.  Can’t be less than he is.  Time to stand up and be counted.

* * *

 

When Ryan, shortly followed by Esposito, gets in, Beckett’s already at her desk, as is normal for these strained days.  What’s not normal is that she doesn’t have a plastic cup of acid coffee by her side, but a mug from the break room.  They exchange relieved glances.  At least they don’t have to worry about her stomach lining becoming detached any more.  And if that’s changed – they take a sidelong, closer, look – it also seems to be the case that she might just have had some sleep.  Though they find it difficult to tell, what with make-up and everything.  Anyway, the febrile atmosphere of strain is some way abated.  Better tell Lanie.  Texts are flying between the three conspirators, mainly of the _say_ _what?_ variety, speculating wildly about what’s going on – or who – when Castle walks in with two coffees and a bear claw and sits down just like everything’s normal and nothing has ever happened to upset anyone.  And even more amazingly, Beckett smiles at him, albeit rather tensely, and says _thank you_ in something that is still not – but is rather closer to - her old mildly amused tone and – miracle! – eats the bear claw.  More texts fly, as discreetly as possible.  After being reamed out the last time, Ryan and Esposito have no intention of _ever_ letting on that they and Lanie have been trying to keep an eye out for Beckett.  Especially as it was an abject failure.  Doesn’t look like Castle’s had an abject failure, though.  Hmm.  They’ll be watching.  Carefully.  Discreetly.  From a very safe distance.  Making _damn_ sure that Beckett doesn’t spot them.

* * *

 

At lunchtime Castle invites Kate out of the precinct and suggests somewhat sardonically that she eats something with slightly more nutritional content and calorific value than cardboard.  She’s terrifyingly thin.  He’s very careful not to try to insist, though.  And it pays off, mostly, when she eats the majority of a reasonable lunch and drinks most of a milkshake.  But she isn’t saying much, about anything, and she’s chewing her lip constantly, not in the usual inviting way that makes him want to kiss her whenever he sees it, but nervously. Though he still wants to kiss her.  Instead he slips a hand over the table and interlaces his fingers with hers.  She curls her fingers very slightly into his rather than pulling away.  O-kay.  So not rejection, then.  Unhappy tension is still spilling off her.  So what is it?  He’s no further on with that, sitting holding hands across the table like twelve year-olds in a milk bar, when Kate says uncertainly, “Dinner tonight?  Somewhere quiet that we can talk?”

Kate wants to talk?  Kate Beckett, grand master of non-communication, wants to _talk?_   Has the world come to an end, or has he been transported to some parallel universe?  He’s probably gaping like a guppy.  _Kate_ wants to talk? 

“Okay.”  That comes out in a normal tone, how, he isn’t sure.  “Anywhere in mind?”  She needs control, she needs to decide.  He can think of several places, but they all qualify as his turf, and he isn’t sure that’s such a good plan. This is going to be hard enough, without adding a discomfort zone.

She suggests an Italian that he’s never heard of, not too far from the precinct, not particularly near either of their apartments.  Neutral ground.  Or possibly No Man’s Land, between the trenches from which they’ve shelled each other with their misunderstandings.  He can stay for the afternoon, or go and she’ll see him there at seven.  Up to him.  There’s nothing in her demeanour to indicate a preference.  But her fingers are still gripping his, and he thinks she might want familiarity.  Of course, he could just ask.  Too many miscommunications just from not talking to each other.  “Do you want me around this afternoon?”  There’s a flex in the fingers, a fractional tightening.

“Yes.”  It’s an admission, of sorts.  His own fingers tighten, inadvertent confession of how relieved he feels about that.  And then he forces them to relax.  Tiny steps.  He tamps down the burn of desire, the need to pull her towards him.  Sex is the last thing that he should be considering, right now.  He’s trying _not_ to repeat mistakes.

* * *

 

Dealing with paperwork is just what Beckett needs, today.  Repetitive, mindless, simple, leaving her mind free.  For once, she hopes that there will be no new case.  Castle’s come in and behaved like none of the last fortnight had ever happened, for which she is deeply grateful.  She allows herself to be taken for a proper lunch, but when she gets there she doesn’t know where to start.  In the end, the time she’s taken to collect the courage to speak has left too little time to talk now.   When Castle slides his hand gently into hers all she can do to show him she appreciates it as the support it means is a small curve of fingertips, featherweight pressure.  She’s running out of time to speak, can see concern beginning to puddle on Castle’s face, when she finally manages to force out words, ask about dinner.  She’s surprised when he asks if she wants him to stick around this afternoon.  But right now she needs something comforting, a security blanket so she doesn’t back out.  If he’s there, she can’t invent an excuse.  And she knows that by five o’clock she’ll want to.  So she says _yes_ , and feels a sharp surprised flex of grip against her hand followed by slow, reluctant easing.

Later that afternoon Castle’s phone chirps, signalling a text from a number he doesn’t recognise.  When he pulls it up, it’s a note from Kyra inviting him – with Kate – to her rescheduled wedding, civil ceremony in a small hotel, in a day’s time.  Nothing like the grand production that murder had interrupted.  When he slides it under Kate’s nose, she reads it twice, looking rather confused and then unhappy, and finally says quietly _do I have to decide now_?  To which the answer is _no_ , because who knows what might happen in terms of bodies dropping on the Twelfth’s watch, and it’s easy to reply _I’ll come but Kate won’t know if she can till that morning – depends on work, is that okay? Rick._  And that’s okay.  Maybe Kate’ll explain this later, along with whatever else she’d first thought of when she asked to talk.


	32. Clear Away The Barricades

By half past six the tension rolling through Beckett is palpable across her desk.  She knows she’s strung tight, fidgeting with paperclips and pens and papers, wishing she had never suggested dinner, and especially never suggested talking.  She still doesn’t know where she’s going to start.  Castle’s playing with his phone, carefully not annoying her, carefully not noticing that she’s one short step away from cancelling the whole idea.  It’s so tempting just to run from it all, go back to hiding.  Until she looks across the desk and sees the tremor in Castle’s fingers and realises that he’s nervous too, uncomfortable in this strange place they’ve found themselves: where they know each other’s bodies intimately but don’t know each other well enough to talk comfortably.  Sex was such an easy solution: there was no difficulty in starting there.  But that’s not enough: if neither of them are casual then they both have to stop using sex as a solution, a distraction, a disguise. 

The restaurant is tucked away in a small side street, unlikely to be found by passers-by.  Beckett’s never quite been sure how it manages to make a living, but it’s been there as long as she can remember so it must be doing something right.  There’s a table for them in the high-sided booths at the back, no background music to distract, plastic chequered tablecloths, short cardboard menu, shorter wine list, spotty teen waitress in jeans and dishtowel hanging from the back pocket.  Home-made pasta, rustic sauces, rough ciabatta bread, uncultured red wine.  Very much not like dining at Jean-Georges.   But now they’ve ordered, and there’s a carafe of house red on the table, and there is no excuse not to talk.  And she still doesn’t know where to start, and Castle’s just sitting sipping his wine and not saying a word, which really does not help.  All her half-formed thoughts are drowning in the sea of silence between them.

“I don’t know what to say,” she blurts out.  Castle quirks an ironic eyebrow.  It’s clear that doesn’t surprise him.  “I don’t know where to start, how to do this.”   She takes a mouthful of wine.  “I don’t _do_ relationships.”

“Is that what we’ve got?   A relationship?”  There’s no clue to what he thinks in his tone or in his face.  She can’t tell anything from his hands, one below the table, one holding his wine glass.  No help there, to get over this barrier.  And breathe.

“Maybe?”  And breathe again, as that falls into the space.  He’s fully focused on her.  Silence stretches out.  It’s her own interrogation technique, used on her: silence and absolute focus, until the suspect can’t stand it and fills the emptiness with words.  But not, she thinks, being used _against_ her.

“Why maybe?”  Same neutral tone.  But the fingers round the stem of the glass are just a little whiter.

“Because...because we don’t have one right now.  You said - try to start over, do it better.”

“And?”  Both hands are out of sight now, face still neutral.  But the set of his shoulders betrays his tension, how much he’s waiting for the answer.

“Maybe...we could try?”  She’s dropped her eyes, staring at her hands, the table, anywhere but at Castle.  She’s raw, exposed.  Meeting his gaze is a step further than she can go.  She takes another gulp of wine, finding the tannic red the most interesting thing in the world right now.  More silence, till at last she lifts her eyes.

“Difficult to start a relationship if you won’t even look at the other person.”  But Castle is smiling softly and his shoulders have relaxed from the tight set of a moment ago.

Food arrives and allows the moment to be broken, the overhang of emotion to dissipate slightly.  The weight of expectations, though, isn’t changing.  Six short sentences aren’t enough to explain anything, but perhaps she’s past the hardest part.  She’s admitted she wants to try.

“We should maybe talk about what went wrong,” Castle says softly.  It’s an invitation, not a demand.  She knows that truth is the price of moving forward, but it’s a heavy expense on the overdrawn account of her control.  “About why we started the way we did?”  There’s another silence.  She could measure out the problems of their mixed-up _relationship_ in each of their current silences.  He’s considering something.  And it looks very much as if he doesn’t like the taste of the idea in his head.  There are a lot of uncomfortable questions that could cause that look, and Beckett doesn’t like the answers to any of them.  She concentrates on her pasta for a time.

“Kate…that very first night.  When I brought cupcakes and you were crying…why did you sleep with me?  Why did you change your mind about getting into it half-way to Jean-Georges?  Why did you assume” – he doesn’t say _pretend_ \-  “it was just casual, when you’ve never done anything casually?”  It’s the most dangerous question he could ask.  But it’s the only thing that he thinks will lance the poison of their bad start.  He knows where he stands, now.  What he doesn’t know is where _she_ does.  If there is to be any chance of rescuing this, she needs to articulate where she was.  Is.  Wherever that is.

Of all the uncomfortable questions that could be asked, those are right at the top of the list.   She couldn’t answer them three weeks ago; she’s no better prepared now.  She searches for an answer in the sauce on her plate, but no matter how she swirls her fork through the pasta, words don’t appear.  She chews her lip unhappily.

Castle’s holding his breath, waiting to see if she’ll answer or run.  He wouldn’t bet serious money on which will prevail.  Except that it’s been at least a minute and she hasn’t stood up yet.  So maybe there’ll be an answer.  Whether he _likes_ the answer, of course, is an entirely different matter.  But any answer will be better than this uncertain, unsatisfactory mess, he tells himself, and puts his hands back below the table so she can’t see them twisting together.  He’s trying very hard not to bias her responses: not to clue her in to the answer he wants so badly to hear.  Which, astonishingly given his history, does not centre around _you are unbelievably hot in bed_.  Though that would be nice to hear.  _Not helpful, Rick_.  He recognises this line of thinking as a distraction, a shell in case he doesn’t like the answer.

“Before…first...At Jean-Georges…I didn’t want to think why.  That way no-one would get hurt.  If it’s just casual no-one gets hurt.”

“Seems to me like we’ve both got hurt,” Castle murmurs.  _Stop talking, Rick._ She doesn’t seem to have heard him, eyes focused inward.   Whatever she’s seeing, she doesn’t like it very much.

She’s almost talking to herself.  “No-one has to choose.  No-one gets let down.”   Abruptly she looks up.  “If it were only casual, I’d never need to choose between you and my mother.  I wouldn’t let anyone down.”  He’s not sure he could possibly have heard that correctly.  In the back of his head a caveman voice is screaming _she’s really into you she really is she really really is kiss her now_.  In the less primitive parts  of his brain he’s thinking that this is possibly a good start.

“I said yesterday that I wouldn’t expect you to give up your mother.   Just like you wouldn’t expect me to give up Alexis.  I won’t ask you to choose.  But... if you want you can have both.  I want to try.”  He forces himself to stop there, puts his hands back on the table.  It’s up to her now. 

When she slips her hand over his it’s an acceptance.

“Let’s try, Castle.” And the weight of tension finally falls away from him as he turns his palm upward under her hand and curls his fingers over hers.  It’s possibly the least erotic way he’s ever deliberately touched her, and yet somehow it’s the most intimate.

The warmth of Castle’s large hand round hers is oddly unfamiliar, perhaps because they’ve never really paused at simple affection before, gone straight to sex to avoid any uncomfortable considerations. 

They’re still sitting in companionable, hand-holding quiet when the waitress comes to clear and offer coffee.  Of course there has to be coffee, but here in a cheap Italian restaurant, not in the dangerous, heated, pressuring privacy of either apartment.  It would be far too easy to think that everything’s fixed, everything’s good, and go straight back to sleeping together.  That’s not for tonight.  Take things a little slower, talk it through.  There’s time.

There’s still one matter to be dealt with, Beckett remembers: the wedding invitation.  Kyra.  Her turn to ask difficult questions.

“Why did you meet up with Kyra mid-case?”  It’s his turn to search for answers, shift uncomfortably.  His face twists slightly.

“Honestly?  I couldn’t sort my head out.  You were angry with me about everything and had walked out on me and she walked away from me at college and it just all got mixed up.  And then she was actually pleased to see me.  You weren’t.”

“Did you really think I’d appreciate you going over my head to get back into the Twelfth?”  There’s an edge to that.  Beckett is recovering some of her normal personality.

“Well, no…but I didn’t have a better idea and anyway if I’d come round would you even have opened the door?”  She shakes her head.  She knows she wouldn’t have.

“Deal, Castle.  You don’t try to pull that sort of stunt ever again and I’ll try not to shut you out because you’ve annoyed me – or for any other reason.  But the next time you try to override my decisions about what’s best for me without talking to me first – and me agreeing - we will be done.”

“Deal.”  He knows that the next time he will be definitely dead.  He’ll only get this one chance.  She hasn’t been swift to forgive this time.  Next time she won’t forgive at all.  _No protection._

“Now, why did you meet her mid-case when you’d been told it wasn’t appropriate?”

“I needed to sort out how I felt about her.  You.  Both of you.  Get closure.  But then she was so upset about Greg and I wanted to fix it for her, because I couldn’t fix anything for you.  I needed to fix it.  Except she was the wrong woman.  I’d moved on.  Grown up.”  There’s a very sardonic eyebrow quirk at that.   “It wasn’t her I wanted to be with.”

Beckett looks rather pointedly at him.  “I’m not a project to be fixed.  Take me as I am.” _Oh yes please_ , says his hindbrain.  _No.  Not very grown up_ , says the smaller, sensible part of his mind.  But something of his thoughts must have crossed his expression because Beckett is very slightly flushed and pulling her hand away and drinking the last of her coffee in a very _I don’t want to go there right now_ kind of way.

“So this wedding, then.  Why d’you want to go?”

“ ‘S a neat ending to the story.  She’s happy, I’m done with it.  Please come with me.”

“Why?”

“Because I always cry at weddings and you’re sure to have a packet of Kleenex?”  Beckett rolls her eyes and it’s just so normal he could cry right now.  “Because...because I just really want you to be there with me?”

“Okay.  If there isn’t a case.  But I’m not going to protect you from her mother.  You’re on your own there.”  She sets down her cup decisively and signals for the check from the waitress.  Castle’s automatic reach towards his pocket is abruptly halted by a glare.  He sits back obediently as Beckett pays.

Outside is cold and unpleasant, and they’re going to go in opposite directions.  No cab sharing tonight.  Possibly, Beckett thinks, that’s just as well.  They’ve reached a tentative understanding, some sort of ground rules.  He won’t protect, she won’t shut out.  Well, they’ll both try.  It’s hardly likely to be bluebirds and sunshine all the way.  But being shut in together in a small space is not exactly going to be good for clear thinking and taking it slow.  And she is really very tired now.  She whistles down a taxi.

Castle is thinking along similar lines.  Separate cabs, take this gently.  But… “Kate?”  A cab’s pulled up that she’s moving towards.  She turns back.  “Can I at least kiss you goodnight?”  She looks up and leans slightly toward him and when he puts his arms round her she fits just right and when he kisses her she tastes just right and she’s opening under his lips and pressing in and this is all getting a little out of hand already but it feels so _good_ to have her tight against him.  Whatever else went right or wrong, clearly this is still right.

The New York cabbie isn’t so impressed and is commenting loudly and unfavourably on the subject of dumb lovers who shouldn’t flag him down if they’re not going to get in when Beckett pulls away and says softly, “Night, Castle.”  And then she’s in the cab and its door is shut and she’s gone.  But only till tomorrow.  He flags down a cab of his own to go home.  They’re going in the right direction at last.


	33. Another Day Another Destiny

Ryan and Esposito are mightily relieved to see that Beckett, having left with Castle the night before looking like she was going to the electric chair, is already at her desk looking relatively normal, if thin, and the frenetic tension level that’s surrounded her for two weeks has dropped again.  At least they haven’t had another fight. Yet.  Neither of them have any confidence in either Castle’s ability not to annoy Beckett or Beckett’s ability to deal with him without another disastrous row.  However, calm is a very nice change.  They can cope with calm.  Any amount of calm, after the last fortnight. 

And then they notice that Beckett is a little more dressed up than usual.  And since she’s nearly normal, it’s time for them to treat her like normal.

“Yo, Beckett, what’s with the dressing up?  Going to a party?  Where’s our invite?”

“Bet it’s a _private_ party.  Who’re you having private parties with?”  But Ryan is extremely careful not to suggest that it might be with Castle.  He quite likes being alive and unmutilated.  He’s also not entirely sure where Beckett currently stands on that front.  All in all, he thinks that preserving the current calm is probably best.  He and Esposito will find out what’s going on soon enough.

“Going to a wedding.  If I was going to a _private_ party I’d make sure you didn’t get invited.  Don’t think you’d fit the spec.”  She looks Esposito up and down, slowly.  “Nah.  Too…small.”  Esposito sputters.  Ryan sniggers, until she looks him up and down too. “And you’re too skinny.  Not enough to look at.”  He’s left speechlessly gaping.  “How are the dating websites going, Espo?”

Both boys reduced to a sense of their own impotence, it’s time to get back to work.  No new case, so nothing to stop her turning up to the wedding.  Unfortunately.  She still doesn’t want to go, but she said she would, so she has to.  At least she doesn’t have to be a bridesmaid in a frilly meringue dress.  Those purple ones the other day had been pretty horrible.  She’s ceremonially buried all the photos of her in bridesmaids’ dresses, equally horrible.  If the boys ever saw them, she’d never live it down.  Still, there’s a few hours yet.  She can hope something turns up.

Sadly nothing does.  Mid-afternoon she’s tidying her hair and freshening her make-up.  Castle’s picking her up to get over to the wedding in twenty minutes and she supposes she ought to be ready.  She’s going to look as if she’s made an effort.  Not polite to turn up to a wedding untidy.  She can do this, right?  It’s her he wants, right?  No need for insecurity.  Right.  But she would kill for a murder right now. 

On the way it’s very quiet.  Castle’s dressed up a bit too, but there’s an edge to the atmosphere that makes Beckett wonder if he isn’t just a bit more upset by Kyra marrying someone else than he’s letting on.  God knows, she’s an expert in how important events in your college years can be, how difficult they can be – are, in her case – to let go.  It’s not especially surprising that he’s tense.  She stretches across the seat and pats the hand on his knee reassuringly.  Immediately his other hand comes to cover hers, trapping it.  It feels like he’s clinging to a lifeline.  It occurs to Beckett that he’s not sad, he’s scared.

“What’s the problem, Castle?”  His grip tightens a shade.

“I really don’t like her mother?”

“Try again.”

“It just all feels like being twenty again.  And I didn’t like being twenty that much.  Oh.  And did I say her mother hates me?  And Greg hates me.”  Ah.  Castle being insecure again.  She knows how to fix that.

“Well, Kyra clearly doesn’t hate you.  She invited you.”  She tries to pat his hand again but he’s clutching hard enough that all she manages is a tip-tap of fingertips.  “And I don’t hate you.” She smiles mischievously.  “You might be over-confident and irritating and full of ridiculously unlikely theories, but I don’t hate you.”  Suddenly he’s pulled her round and is kissing her in the same frantic, desperate, possessive way as he did after the boys had interrogated him.  So much for her carefully applied lip gloss.  She’ll need to re-do that before they go in, and possibly, given where his hand is, re-tidy her hair.  She’s not going to go to anyone’s wedding looking like she’s just fallen out of bed.  She doesn’t need to prove anything to anyone.  And now she _also_ understands what Kyra had meant by her parting comment.  She pushes him away as the car starts to slow.  “Still not Tylenol, Castle.”

“No, definitely not.  You taste _much_ better.”  Even though she’s fussing with her hair and re-applying her lip gloss (which has a much nicer flavour than Tylenol, he thinks), even after all of the tidying up it’s still going to be perfectly obvious that she’s been very thoroughly kissed. And, immaturely, he wants everyone to know that.  That she’s with _him_.   _So_ much an improvement on Tylenol for making him feel better.

The ceremony is short, sweet and beautiful.  There aren’t many guests, and those that are there look genuinely happy for the newly-weds.  It’s all very romantic in a low-key way, and, Beckett thinks, so much nicer and more real than the huge, high-society effort that murder had disrupted.  It’s very clear that Greg and Kyra are deeply in love.  A little wistfully, she hopes that they stay that way, that nothing more happens that would part them.  She’s seen too much of the seamy, sordid side of life really to believe in happy-ever-after, but if this pair can survive murder on the eve of their wedding, they’ve probably got a better chance than most.  So she smiles and claps happily with everyone else, even Castle, who’s so far needed about half her Kleenex.  She’ll tease him about that for days, she thinks.

Castle stops sniffling (tears of happiness, definitely) approximately in time to clap the new couple.  Despite the much smaller ceremony, Kyra’s still going for some traditions, he notes: it looks like she’s going to throw the bouquet.  He wonders idly which of her friends is going to get it.  And then, with a mixture of horror and amusement, he recognises the look in her eye as pure mischief and as she lets it go he knows _exactly_ who she’s aimed it at (and he thinks he knows why) and sure enough Beckett has a choice between catching the oversize bunch or being knocked unconscious by it.  Kyra gives him a very tiny it’s-up-to-you-now nod while Beckett is still trying to work out what’s just happened to her and everyone else is laughing and cheering and toasting the bride and groom.  _One day_ , he thinks.

When it’s all over, later in the evening, and they’re clutching small slices of wedding cake in dainty cream boxes, and in Beckett’s case a quite unmanageably large wedding bouquet, it’s time to go home.  Tonight they’re both going in the same direction, so there’s no excuse to get separate cabs.  Suddenly there’s tension in the air: _what now?_   Beckett’s worrying her lip.  It’s too soon to be back together like that, the wounds still not properly healed, too easy not to talk if they’re back in bed.  But she wants him.

On the back seat of the cab the bouquet lies between them, too big to be ignored, too clear a statement.  Castle knows why she’s put it there: too enclosed, too confined, too pressured in the dark privacy of the back of a cab.  It’s too early.  But he wants her.

 Beckett’s apartment is the first one up.  As she’s collecting herself together, struggling to get out with the bouquet without slipping in the slush or dropping the flowers (they’re really pretty) or her purse, she realises that Castle’s found his party manners and is holding the cab door for her and helping her to get out with some semblance of dignity and grace.  Which was working, till she catches her heel on the kerb and only doesn’t fall because he’s caught her elbow before she’s planted her ass on the pavement.  And he’s not letting go.

“Too much champagne, Beckett?”  His eyes are dancing.  “Or have you finally put on a pair of heels that are too high for you to manage?”  They are a half-inch higher than usual, went with the slight dressing-up for the wedding.  But she certainly can manage them.  She’s never met a pair of heels she can’t defeat.  And she’s met lots.

“I’ve worn higher heels than this and managed.  I’m fine.”  He’s still holding her arm.  Mysteriously, the cab seems to have left.  She didn’t notice that happen.

“Sure.  But it would be a terrible shame if those very pretty flowers went flying because you slipped again.”  There’s a particularly evil grin.  “Maybe I should carry you to your door to protect the flowers from you landing on top of them?”

“Not necessary, Castle.  The flowers will be fine.  More likely that you’ll slip and both the flowers and I will end up squashed under you –“ she stops abruptly because his expression has changed and he’s looking dangerous and hungry and _oh shit_ maybe she has drunk too much champagne because that was a very bad choice of words and now she’s thinking about being under him in very different circumstances and she just _knows_ that he’s thinking the same and _oh god_ he’s kissing her but it’s very different from earlier.  It’s a little rough and a lot seductive and if they were inside she knows exactly where this would be going because the way he’s pressing against her makes it perfectly obvious just how _dangerous_ he can be.  And some nights, she’d be all about the danger.

But not tonight.  They have to take this slowly.  Though she can barely remember why, with his tongue in her mouth and his hands hard against her neck, the dimple of her spine, holding her firm against his hot weight.  But this is Manhattan and they are out on the street and some cynical passer-by is shouting _Get a room already_ and it breaks the moment.  Which is probably a good thing.  Really.  She pulls back.  There’s a noise of disagreement and protest.

“No.  Don’t come in with me.  Not tonight.  Too much, too soon, and today’s been a bit too emotional for both of us.  We can do this better, Castle.”  He knows she’s right, but he doesn’t have to like it.  Though it’s fairly clear from the look in her eyes that she doesn’t either.  “Remember, good things come to those who _wait_?”  Oh, that is not fair.  That is _so_ not fair.  He growls in a way that ought to tell her that when they’re done _waiting_ (it’s right to wait.  It is.) he will be revenged on her for that comment because now every time he hears the word _wait_ in that particular bedroom intonation he remembers her in that blue dress and peeling her out of that blue dress and every other time since then and he simply does not want to wait any more.  He will, because he, she, they need time.  But in due time he’ll make her _wait_.  She’ll beg not to _wait_.

The flowers, astonishingly, are still intact.  Beckett considers a final goodnight kiss and reluctantly rejects it.  She’s not sure she can keep to her good resolutions if she kisses him again.  She doesn’t think that she will either walk in the door alone or sleep if there’s any more kissing.  Especially – she inadvertently drops her eyes to his mouth and hastily flicks them up again – as the look in his eyes tells her what he could do for her.  To her.   With her.  _Stop._   Go in.  Alone.

Castle’s having a pitched argument with his self-control, and is just about winning.  He’s well aware that they really, really need not to fall into bed like two sex-crazed teenagers; that the previous four days have been a roller-coaster emotional ride and probably neither of them is on an even keel yet; and that both of them are supposed to be adults.  But.  But he doesn’t want to stop.  He wants to take Kate to bed and show her all the ways he can – does – love her: prove he’s worth her, that she should keep him.  And that, right there, is exactly why he shouldn’t.  He needs to deal with his insecurity just as she needs to deal with her own issues.  She’s not Tylenol.  Support goes both ways, but just as he shouldn’t protect her, he shouldn’t expect her to be the sole source of his security.  Especially as she may have accepted and admitted it’s not _casual_ but she’s still adjusting to that idea.  Give her time.  They need to heal separately as well as together.  Which means going home, alone.  And painfully frustrated.  As, from her expression, is Beckett.


	34. In Your Spell

The flowers are sitting in a vase on the table (they wouldn’t fit on the window ledge) regarding Beckett.  Silly, to feel observed by a bunch of inanimate vegetation.  But they’re looking back at her looking at them.  She’s not stupid.  She knows Kyra was sending her an extremely unsubtle message.  But that sort of consideration is a very long way down the road.  She hasn’t had a serious relationship since Sorensen and she’s not sure how to do it.  Especially, she’s not sure how to balance the case and Castle.  _Take it as it comes._   Another bad word choice.  She’s still all wound up from the goodnight kiss, the feeling of a large body against her, the hints of heat and pressure and movement even through winter clothes.  She’ll run a bath: warm, soothing, relaxing.  And when she’s in it the damn flowers won’t be looking at her.

Her phone is always within reach, thanks to the tendency of homicides not to keep regular office hours.  So when it beeps she automatically reaches for it from the soft bubbles.  It’s a short text: four words.  _Are you in bed?_   Her lips curve.  If she’s all wound up, well, it’s only fair that he should be.  And on the phone they’re only talking.  It’s not like they’re in bed.  Payback’s a bitch, Castle.  She taps out _No.  But I am naked._

_Really?_

_Tell me more._

_It’s hot and steamy and I’m all wet._

_Are you?_

_Very._

The phone rings ten seconds later.  There’s a surprise.  She answers, putting it on speaker so she doesn’t drop it in the bath.  Soapy hands and technology don’t mix, she’s found.

“Naked, hot and wet, Beckett?” It’s sinfully soft and sexy, slipping down her skin.  “Do I need to guess what you’re doing?   Let’s play Twenty Questions.” The deep tone implies all kinds of dark, damp, heated actions.

“You can try.  Ten questions.   Usual rules, yes or no answers only.  No hints.” 

“What’s my prize if I get it right?”

“Satisfaction.”  She’s produced her ripped-silk bedroom voice and it winds around his ears and downward because the way she pronounces _satisfaction_ would raise the dead.  Let alone him.  He’s definitely risen.

“Satisfaction?”  It’s a purr from a big-cat predator.  “Hmm.  I’ll collect that at a time of my choosing.”  The purr is definitely hungry.  It’s all about the chase.

“So confident, Castle.  What if you lose?” 

“Oh, I won’t lose.” He sounds completely assured.  “I never lose.  But I’m not going to guess just yet.”

“Oh?”

“No.  I’ve got ten questions.  I’m going to use all of them first.”  That sounds ominous.  And sexy.  And it’s just as well the bath’s hot because there are shivers trip-trapping up and down her spine, making her wriggle.  But this isn’t going to bed together.  This is talking.  Just talking.

“Give it your best shot.”  _Oh Kate.  Have you forgotten that I’m a better shot than you are_?  _I’m going to wreck you.  And you’ll enjoy every last second._   Not least because he already knows where she is and the thought of her long smooth lines in a bath, or preferably stepping out of a bath towards him, is doing nothing for his frustration.  And he knows that this isn’t exactly sticking to the spirit of what they’d agreed but _she started it_ and it’s talking.  Just talking.

“If I were there right now, I’d just be looking at you, lying across the bed.  I’d make you wait for me, because you might be naked but I’m still fully clothed.  I’d undressed you slowly, touching and teasing and never quite where you wanted me, till you squirmed and moaned and told me to _hurry up_ but I wouldn’t.  It’s all about you, Kate.” It’s the intimate velvet baritone resonating in her veins, smooth dark molasses seeping over her.  It makes her wriggle again and breathe more deeply.  She can see the picture he’s painting and _oh god_ she wants it.  “Would you want that, Kate?”

“Yes.”  She’s deeply proud that she manages to say that without a hitch.  She may not survive to the tenth question, if this is how he plays.

“If I were there right now, beside you on your bed, skin to skin, looking down at your mouth, you’d lick your lips and bite down like you do when you’re thinking naughty thoughts about what you want, and I’d see those little shivers that dance over you when you want me, and then I’d lean in slowly and take your mouth till you curve and arch and try to pull me in closer and you’d be gasping under just that kiss because I wouldn’t be touching you anywhere else.”  She’s half undone already, hands on the side of the bath flexing and releasing, because she knows exactly what his kiss would feel like and how she’d react and now she isn’t wet from the water alone.  “Would you like that, Kate?”

“Ye-es.”  It’s sighed out on a husky breath.  _Got you, Kate.  Oh yes_.  Though he knows that he’s caught, too, and this is going to be wonderfully, exquisitely painful because he’s _not there with her_ and at the end there will only be self-help remedies for either of them.  But they’re just talking.

“If I were there right now” – and the repetition of that phrase is almost enough to do it for her on its own – “leaning over you, you’d be open and wanting me and making those sexy noises that you do when you’re hot for it and you can feel how much I want you, and I’d tell you to hold on to your bedstead and not move your hands till I said you could” – and she thinks of handcuffs and dark hot nights and definitely not plain vanilla – “and then I’d kiss you some more, down across your neck, bite on your shoulder where no-one else would see it so you’d know you were mine and you’d be desperate for me to do more.”  She can’t think.  She can see it all, and her hands are sliding under the water and it’s only the third question and what is he doing to her?  “Wouldn’t you, Kate?”

“Yes.”  It’s a whisper, halfway to a gasp.  Talking is increasingly difficult: she can’t seem to get a proper breath.  If this is what happens when they’re just talking, she’s not sure that she’d survive holding hands, let alone anything more.

Over in a dark loft bedroom in SoHo, Castle is barely able to focus any more.  He can see it all so clearly in his mind, both what he’s telling her and what she looks like in her bath, slick with bubbles and breathing harder.  He’s breathing harder.  Question four.

“If I were there right now” – oh, if he were there right now they wouldn’t be _talking_ – “you would still be holding the bedstead and I’d be stroking your breasts and then I’d put my lips to you but I think I might need to hold you still because when I suck you’d start to move under me and you’d not just be making little sexy noises, you’d be moaning for more.  Wouldn’t you, Kate?”

 _Oh god_.  She would be.   She almost is right now.  She can feel his lips around her nipples and he isn’t even there.  “Yes,” she gasps, and knows he hears her arousal.  His voice is irresistible.  But he’s talking.  Just talking.

“If I were there right now, you’d be pleading to touch me too because you’d feel me pressed hard up against you, but I still wouldn’t let you let go because your hands stretched above your head leaves you wide open to me.  You’d beg me to go lower, wouldn’t you, Kate?”  Halfway.  He wonders which of them will be wholly undone first.  Even if he’d been able to be with her physically, this virtual world he’s created for her, them, wouldn’t let him go.  The vision of her all stretched out, open and compliant, is almost too much.  Even just talking.

All she can manage is a formless noise, at first. “Ye-ss.”  She presses against her hand.

“If I were there right now” – she moans softly and the sound goes straight through him from ears to groin and there are some extremely interesting splashing noises in the background _oh god Kate are you doing what I think you’re_ _doing_ – “I’d be sliding my hands down oh-so-lightly over your stomach and your hipbone just where it hollows out and never getting to where you wanted, and you’d take your hands off the headboard to try to make me do what you wanted but that’s not what I’d let you do and I’d stop till you put them back.  You’d put them back when I told you to, wouldn’t you, Kate?”

She’s played that game before, and enjoyed it immensely, but here and now she isn’t even playing for real and it’s hotter than it ever was, drawled out in that syrup-of-sex silky baritone.  The pictures he’s drawing in her mind are sending her wild.  “Y-yes,” she stutters.  She’s imagining exactly where he’d touch and the voice he’d be using to tell her what to do and the water is shifting around her. Just talking.

Oh _shit_ , this is going too far.  He can hear the soft ripples of her bathwater.  She’s sounded like this when she’s under him in bed.  She sounds like this when she’s close to letting go, and if he’d known that he could provoke this reaction just by talking dirty to her he’d have been doing it since the first time they met.  And who’s he kidding that it’s all about doing it for her, since he’s almost as close as she is and it’s really just as well this is only ten questions not twenty because he’s not at all sure that either of them will make it to ten any more.  But they’re just talking.

“If I were there right now,” he forces out, half an octave lower than he started, “with you back to holding the headboard and stretched out and waiting for me to come back to you, I’d run my hands and my mouth over your hip and your legs down past your knee and back up the inside to almost where you wanted me but we’d both still be _waiting_ and you’d be open and wet and writhing and starting to beg between your moans and you’d _know_ that I was just as desperate as you.  Wouldn’t you, Kate?”

“Y-yes.”

“If I were there right now,” he gasps, barely able to speak coherently, “I’d…I’d” – he takes a frantic breath and thinks desperately of calm, cold blue water – “I’d slide my fingers over you and touch you right where you want me to and then I’d tease you till you begged me for more and run my tongue over you until you couldn’t think of anything but me like you’ve been wanting me to since we started this.  Don’t you want me to, Kate?”

 _Oh god yes.  Right now_.  Her hand moves and she moans.  She can’t answer him with words.

“If I were there right now,” he groans, because he is sure what she’s doing and _oh_ he is too, “I would slip my fingers into you and you would beg me for more and I would give you more until you were right on the edge and then I’d let you let go of the bedstead and you’d pull me upward but I’d still be sliding my fingers in and out of you and you’d reach down and touch me just like you’re imagining right now.  Aren’t you, Kate?”

He can hear her panting, moaning, desperate and _oh shit_ it’s so lucky that the next is the last question because he cannot _do_ this any more and he wants so badly to be with her and whose stupid idea was it to be in separate beds tonight anyway?

“Aren’t you, Kate?” he repeats, hoarse with need.

“ _Oh god Castle.  Yes.”_

“If I were there right now,” _if only I were there right now_ , “I’d be inside you and filling you and you’d be tight around me and _Christ Kate_ I’d pull you right over the cliff with me _just like we’re both falling now aren’t we Kate?”_

And neither of them is talking any more now.

* * *

 

Long minutes later breathing has returned to normal, blood has cooled, heart rates slowed, and the cell connection is still open.

“Castle?”

“Still here.”  As opposed, say, to the next planet over.  Or Kate’s apartment, which is where he would like to be, curled around her softness and holding her tucked in close.

“That’s not how Twenty Questions normally goes.”  There’s an amused, soft, satisfied lilt behind the words.

“Well…no.”

“None of those questions had anything to do with guessing what I was doing, did they?”  There’s a suspiciously long silence.  “Did they?”

“Well…no.”

“So guess now.”

“You’re – were, when you asked me to guess first time – in a bath.  Hot and steamy and full of bubbles.”  His voice is completely confident, and she realises with a hint of annoyance that he knew all along.  He knows her too well.  “Do I win?”  And there’s bouncy-Castle-as-child, which she hasn’t heard since…since before it all fell apart.  So maybe they’re making it right with each other.

“You win.”  It’s deliberately resigned.  If he’d been there, she’d have rolled her eyes.  Of course, if he’d been there she wouldn’t have been in the bath.  And if he were in her apartment now, by some ridiculously fanciful teleportation theory, probably right about now he’d be starting to claim his prize.  Which would likely mean that in the end she’d win too.

There’s a not-particularly-muffled whoop from Castle’s end.  “I get the prize!” And then even through the phone she knows his eyes have turned dark and possessive and predatory and in a totally different tone he says, “Satisfaction.  Oh Kate, you have no idea.  Just you _wait_.”  She thinks it’s definitely time to bring this call to a close, because if there is any more of this version of _just_ _talking_ she will probably drown.

“Good night, Castle.  See you tomorrow.”  She can maybe look forward to tomorrow, now.

“Till tomorrow.”


	35. You Hold Your Course

She didn’t dream.  It’s the first thing she thinks, when she wakes.  No nightmares, no erotic dreams, nothing.  She feels better than she has in weeks.  Still some thinking, some talking, to be done, but now she’s started, though it won’t be easy, she can continue.  Maybe, just maybe, they can have something.  Something more.  If they’re careful of, with, each other. 

She contemplates for a while in the steaming water of her shower.  She shuts down when she’s upset, or hurt.  But shutting down means shutting out, and shutting out will fuel Castle’s insecurity about not being liked.  She’d worked that out on the way to the wedding.  And when he’s insecure, he needs contact, whether words or touch.  Hmm.  Probably sometime soon she needs to explain that when she’s hurt she needs time to herself, that going off on her own is not going to be a rejection of him but giving herself stability.  Ugh.  More talking about feelings.  She is so _not_ the girl in this tentatively growing relationship.  But if she’s going to try to do this better, she needs to talk about these sorts of differences before they spark another crisis.  They’re just so utterly different that otherwise nothing will ever work.

Much as she hates paperwork days, a couple more would give her, him, them the chance to find out who they are without the stresses and adrenaline high of a case: a chance to have a lower-intensity period where they’re not always in a race against time, full-on and full force.  They need, she realises, a chance to relax with each other.  Not likely to happen often.

* * *

 

Ryan and Esposito are bored and frustrated.  Bored of paperwork, bored of lack of murder, and frustrated because despite the substantial drop in stress and tension around the bullpen and specifically around Beckett’s desk, they still don’t know what’s going on.  They feel, along with Lanie, who keeps sending _what’s happening??_ texts, that it’s not fair.  Beckett may have a world-class poker face, but surely there should be some clues?  After all, she went to a wedding on Castle’s arm yesterday.  Well, metaphorically.  Beckett’s hardly the sort of woman to be arm candy.  And there she is now, sitting at her desk working through the forms and paperwork that they all have to do, giving nothing away.  It’s too early for Castle to be in, and anyway after their last attempt to interrogate him they’d like not to try again too soon.  For an easy-going sap, he’d been pretty nasty when he’d bitten back.  But Beckett’s fair game.

“Hey, Beckett, how was your wedding?”

“ _My_ wedding?  Pretty sure I’d have noticed if I was getting married.  You mean Kyra’s wedding.”

“Yeah, that wedding.  Did’ya get all weepy when they said _I do_?”

There’s an ironic eyebrow lift.  “Nah.  Do you _think_ I’m the sort of woman to get all weepy at weddings?”  That question has only one right answer, if they want to survive the day.

“You might’ve.  Did they do anything traditional, you know, like throw the bouquet?  Slow dancing?”

“Who’d you dance with, Beckett?  Who’d you get cheek-to-cheek and snuggly with?”

“Various aged relatives who won’t see eighty again, like you do.”  But there’s a very slight flush along her cheekbones that is not lost on her fellow detectives. 

“Didn’t you dance with Castle?  You went with him, after all.  Thought you’d been brought up properly, Beckett.  Even Espo knows that if you go to a wedding with someone you have to dance with them.”  Esposito glares at Ryan.  That was just rude.

“Yes.  So?”  It had been…interesting.  And a serious exercise in self-control.  Castle is a surprisingly good dancer – no doubt his mother had something to do with that – and he’s tall enough that even in heels she’d been able to lean her head comfortably on his shoulder when he’d pulled her in close.

“No reason.” They’re both smirking.  “Just getting the facts.”

“Since when am I a subject of investigation?  Don’t you have real work to do?”

“Naw.  Who caught the bouquet, Beckett?”

She can’t stop the blush.  The boys are delighted.  Esposito’s been waiting for this chance since the dating sites disaster.

“Ooh, you did.  Means you’ll be getting married.  Better start planning, buy a few magazines, tear out a few pictures.  I’ll pick you some up at lunchtime.  Takes a long time to plan a wedding.”

“I think you’re forgetting a few important things here.  Like – I’m not engaged to anyone.  Difficult to get married if you don’t even have a fiancé.”

Ryan looks meaningfully at Esposito and makes a _cut it off_ gesture where Beckett can’t see.  They’ll discuss that little admission later.  Possibly with Lanie.  Definitely where they can’t be heard.  Who’s she think she’s kidding?  Does she actually realise she’s just told them she’s in a relationship?  And there’s only one candidate for significant other.

“Still need the magazines, Beckett.  Never know what might turn up.”

“You put wedding magazines anywhere near me, Espo, and I’ll feed you them without ketchup.”

Castle wanders in with the usual morning order in time to hear Kate joshing with the boys and it’s so near to being back how it used to be that he’s just perfectly happy.  When he actually hears her saying she’s not engaged to anyone – but emphatically not saying that she’s not in a relationship – he finally starts to believe it might be real. 

It’s Espo who catches Beckett’s expression when she sees Castle, quickly wiped though it was, soft and a little shy but somehow with a cat-who-got-the-cream edge.  And when he looks at Castle?  Please.  The man’s not even trying to hide how he feels any more.   He’s seen less sap in a maple tree.  Looks like they’re back on.  It’s kinda sweet.  He just hopes it lasts a little longer than the previous go-around.  But when Castle stops mooning over Beckett and looks up Esposito still gives him the _hurt-her-and-I-will-kill-you_ glare, only to get back an equally vicious _interfere-and-I-will-kill-you_ scowl.  Espo believes him on this one.  And so when he and Ryan are pretending to confer about the exact right way to fill in a particularly complicated form, he only mutters, “I think they’re back together, yeah?” and squashes Ryan’s enthusiastic suggestions for ragging on either of them.

Nothing happens over the day.  Unless, of course, you’re two detectives watching out for your friends.  If that’s the case, you notice that one of them, who’s normally tougher than tungsten steel and kicks criminal ass without breaking sweat, is nibbling at her lip and every so often casting unusually soft glances at her civilian partner; and he is staring at her in a way that just screams that he’s hopelessly into her.  And every time he gets her a coffee his fingers brush hers when he puts the mug down, or into her hand, or takes it away to refill, and then she smiles in a way that they’ve never, ever seen, and probably shouldn’t be looking at now.  It’s not for them: it’s private and intimate and really should not be on display to anyone other than the man it’s aimed at.  It looks to Ryan, who has some experience in these matters (more than Esposito, anyway) like more than just they’ve sorted their differences and fallen into bed again.  It’s deeper.  He doesn’t want to think further than that.  It feels too much like prying, and the way Beckett and Castle are looking at each other, he doesn’t need to know any more than that and _everything’s okay_.

* * *

 

At the end of the day the elevator door has barely closed on them before Castle’s pulled Beckett against him and is holding her as close as he can manage without actually suffocating her.

“I’ve been thinking about doing this all day,” he murmurs into her hair.  “But you’ll shoot me if I compromise your reputation at the precinct.”

“Yes.  But possibly not fatally.”  She’s enjoying being hugged in privacy.  Shooting him fatally would remove the possibility of future hugs.  Et cetera.  Not, perhaps, a good plan.

“I suppose that’s an improvement.  But anyway, we’re getting out of the precinct, so I can compromise you in all sorts of ways.”  Beckett looks up and half-rolls her eyes.  “Unless you don’t want me to?” 

“Depends.  Does it involve chocolate?  Coffee?  Alcohol?  Other vices?”  Castle thinks for a moment.  Chocolate – check.  He’s fairly sure he has some good-quality hot chocolate, and there’s always chocolate ice-cream in the freezer.  Coffee – check.  Alcohol – check.  Of course.  Other vices, he thinks he can provide effortlessly.  He still has to claim his winnings from last night.

“All of the above, if required.”  The elevator bell tings and he rapidly lets go of her before the doors open.  Even a non-fatal shooting is undesirable.

Once they’re safely clear of the precinct, Castle looks at her rather mischievously and while Beckett’s glaring suspiciously at him takes the opportunity to sling an arm around her shoulders and tug her into him.  “Not in the precinct now, Kate.”   Clearly not.  He won’t be calling her anything but Beckett in the bullpen.  Not if he values his ear.

“What are you doing, Castle?”

“Isn’t it obvious?  Hugging you.”

Beckett hmphs a little uncomfortably.  Casual, open affection is something she may take a while to get used to.  She’s not a very touchy-feely person, certainly in public.  Still, it’s a nice sensation, so she suppresses her automatic reaction to step away and allows herself to be drawn in.

Castle hasn’t missed the sharp reflexive stiffening when he put his arm round her, nor the deliberate decision not to pull away.  She’s trying.  He needs to be careful too.  He likes to touch things; he’s as tactile as a kitten and twice as curious;  but Kate doesn’t, prefers to step back and observe from a distance.  He supposes it’s the difference between celebutantes and - not.  Celebutantes were only too happy to be up close and personal.  Any exposure is good by their standards – oh.  Oh shit.  That’s a conversation he’d better start.  The chance of them _not_ appearing in the gossip columns is very low, and Kate is going to hate it.  Better talk about that, how to handle it, preferably before they get blindsided by the papers.

“Kate?”

“Hmm?”

“Come back with me for dinner at the loft?”  Beckett considers, very briefly.  Decent dinner courtesy of a good cook, or a choice of take-out menus.  And there had been an implication that there would be chocolate.  And…other vices.  Mmm.  And before anything else, a chance to talk about their rather different styles.

“Okay.”  Well, at least if there’s going to be an animated discussion when he mentions the gossip columns (and he doesn’t see how there won’t be) it’ll be in private.  No-one else is in tonight.  And she’s coming home with him, which is definitely an improvement on the last couple of weeks, and maybe there will be a chance for something a little more tactile than last night’s aural sex, interesting as that was.  He’ll remember that for times when they’re apart.  Book tours, which he has recently been thinking may deserve a special circle of hell all of their own, might have some brighter spots.  Though he’d much rather be together.  Solo, or even telephone duet, isn’t his preference.

Dinner mostly over, chocolate ice-cream in play, Beckett thinks, reluctantly, that it’s time to talk. (ugh) Strangely, Castle’s looking serious, as if there’s something he doesn’t like wheeling in his mind.

“Castle,” she starts, just as he’s opening his mouth on the angular K of her name, and he closes his lips as she rushes on, speeding to get her words out before she loses her nerve and goes back to silences and misunderstanding.  “Castle, you know that I need space?”  His face drops instantly.  Arrgh.  That came out all wrong.  “No, I don’t mean that way.  Uh.  That wasn’t how I meant.”  She makes a face at her ice-cream.  “I _hate_ talking about feelings,” she mutters, childishly.  “I meant” – she’s lost momentum and it’s hard to start again – “you know I’m not exactly good at sharing and opening up.”  It’s just as well she isn’t looking at Castle, because the look of incredulous _gee Beckett, you don’t say?_   would probably get his nose amputated without anaesthetic.  “When I’m upset, I need time to myself.”  There, it’s out.  “I shut down.  It doesn’t mean I’m shutting you out.  So you need to know about it so you don’t feel hurt when I do that.  Because I will.”   

That’s a whole new difficult dimension to  _doesn’t need protected_ .  He doesn’t like it: can’t yet see how anything can’t be made better by comfort.  He wants to be the one who comforts her.  And yet, on both occasions when he’s tried, she’s not objected.  Though she’s hardly turned into him, sought his shelter, leaned on him; she’s been still and unresponsive.  Well.  At least she’s being honest.  Who’s he kidding?  She’s trying not to hurt him, trying to warn him that the way she deals with matters isn’t all about him.  It occurs to Castle that she’s attempting to allay his insecurities before they bite.  No-one’s done that before.  Meredith wouldn’t have noticed them, and Gina used them to keep him writing.  He’d kiss her, if she wasn’t the wrong side of the table and the ice-cream.  But soon she won’t be.   Unfortunately, before there’s any chance of that, it’s his turn to spoil the party.

“Okay.  I can’t say I like it, but I can try to deal with that.  Just don’t kill me if I forget and try to comfort you?  I’m used to providing comfort to unhappy people.”  He grimaces.  He really does not like what he has to say next.

“Kate.  There’s another thing.”  She raises an expectant eyebrow.  “You know that if we’re really…doing this…then at some point it’ll hit the gossip pages.”  Clearly she hadn’t.  She’s lost all animation the minute he’s said it.  It’s almost flattering, that she’s only thought about the man, not the rich, famous, public star.  Though she’s never cared about – or for – his fame, or notoriety.

“Oh.”  It’s all she can say.  Foolishly, she’d forgotten that Castle is a gossip column staple, and that the whole Nikki Heat thing has generated more column inches than go up the Washington Monument.  So if she’s seen out and about with him, the rumourmongers will be all over it.  She can see the headlines now: _Real-life Rook finally gets Nikki;_ a hundred word plays on _Heat_.  Just the thought of it makes her cringe.  She’d thought being in an elevator with his ex in a wedding dress was embarrassing.  She’d had no idea.  Now what?  She doesn’t discuss her private life with more than two people in the whole wide world, and even then she’s not about the sharing.  The thought of being on page six is beyond appalling.  She can feel herself shrinking into a shell again.

Castle would almost have preferred the knock-down row that he’d anticipated. He finds Beckett’s frozen silences much harder to deal with than shouting, even when they’re not directed at him.  This, though, is one that he can neither prevent nor be blamed for.

“I can’t stop it, Kate.  Best we can do is manage it.”

“How?  How am I supposed to do my _job_ if reporters and paparazzi are prowling round every crime scene?  I don’t want my work, my life, splashed out over page six for the world to gawp at.”  She stops.  Castle looks at the agony that exposure would cause her etched into her face and posture, knows that little that isn’t related to her mother’s case could be worse for her.  And he’s watching her do exactly what she warned him she’d do less than ten minutes ago: shutting down, shutting out, withdrawing.  _Fuck_ , it hurts to see.  _No protection_.

“What do you want to do, Kate?”  He’s not saying _do you want to go home_ – she might take him up on it, and he’s not going to suggest she leaves – nor yet asking her to stay, though that’s what he wants.

“Coffee.”  He throws a sharp startled glance across the table, over her half-eaten ice-cream, now neglected.

“Coffee?  Sure.”  And while he’s concentrating on that, it gives Beckett some space, he realises, takes the pressure of his reactions away from her.

She’s stalked stiff-backed over to the couch, putting a little distance between them, attempting to clear her head.  She notices that Castle’s staying with the coffee machine, not trying to interfere in her thinking, not pushing for responses or making suggestions or pressing a particular course of action on her.  She toes her shoes off, tucks her feet under her, huddles into the corner of the sofa.  _What now?_  The thought of prurient gossip about her, rapacious newsies prying into her life, digging into her past, is unbearable.  But.  But she’s stronger than to run from it.  She’s decided she wants a proper relationship with Castle, so they need to get round it.  And he’d said – manage it.  Maybe that’s where to start.

Coffee is set down before her, and Castle follows, not sitting overly close, not too far away, not talking.

“You said we could manage it.  How?”


	36. Is The Hour So Late?

“Paula.”  Beckett – and it is very definitely Detective Beckett, not Kate – flicks out a piercing look.

“Paula,”  she says flatly.  “Paula, who set up a photoshoot in the bullpen with two policewoman strippers and a gossip reporter?  _Paula’s_ going to manage this acceptably?”  The depth of her disbelief rivals the Mariana Trench.

“Yes, Paula.  Paula will do what she’s told.  If I tell her to keep the press off our backs, then” – he takes a quick shallow breath – “with a bit of quid pro quo she’ll be able to do it.  I’m her most lucrative client and if she wants to keep me she’ll manage it.”  Hmm.  There’s a side of Castle she hasn’t seen before, laying down _this is how it will be_ , as if there’s no possibility that his orders won’t be obeyed.  He never uses that tone in the precinct.  She expects that having it at all is something to do with swimming with the business sharks.  But –

“Quid pro quo?  What exactly might that entail, Castle?”  He looks uncomfortable again.

“Um.  Probably... Um...” All definitive tone has now gone missing.

“ _Tell me_.” That’s a tone she’s undoubtedly learned from Montgomery, straight to the obedience  centres of the brain, no stopping, no possibility of dissent.

“Probably coming with me to some dressy book parties, that sort of thing, where the press can take photos of us.  I’ll try to keep it to that.  But if we go out somewhere, I can’t guarantee there won’t be other...interference.”

He’s being honest about the limitations of _management_ , at least.  She supposes that’s the best she’ll get.  It’s not his fault.  Much.  They’re both compromising: she on privacy, he on protection.

“I guess I’ll cope.  Mostly.”  There’s a very audible sigh of relief as she relaxes, followed, entirely unsurprisingly, by Castle shifting up next to her.

“Is there anything more we should talk about tonight?” he murmurs.  He means it, it’s not just a line to open a new game.  But she’s tired of talking, she just wants to be Castle and Beckett, no fame or fortune or Jameson Rook or Nikki Heat, just them.  And seeing as it seems that if they try they can, albeit with some difficulty, talk about things honestly and resolve them, rather than fall into bed to avoid them, she thinks they can leave talking for now and be a little more...demonstrative. 

“Hmm.  Vices?”

“You know all my vices.”  He smiles slowly.  “But I don’t know all of yours.  You don’t smoke, you don’t drink, much.  So what _do_ you do, Detective Beckett?”  And _oh_ his expression says he knows what she does, what she wants to do.  But she’s not that easy, and she wants to tweak his tail.  So to speak.  Tweaking other things can come later.

“I read Connelly’s mystery novels,” she smirks.

“That’s a vice.  Roughly equivalent to cutting your toenails in bed.”

“Eurgh.  That’s nasty.”

“What else?”  He’s sidled closer.  “Connelly’s comics are hardly sufficient to give you...satisfaction.”  An arm is insinuating itself round her.  She wriggles into a more comfortable alignment.  His voice is dropping into sinful softness.

“There’s Patterson’s books.”

“That’s a vice you shouldn’t admit in polite company.” The arm insinuates a little more forcefully.  She’s being pulled in.

“And where might I find this polite company?”

“Don’t know.   But you can find some impolite company right here.”  And he tugs her up next to him.  There’s no mass to her at all, just now, and the effort he’s put into tugging is entirely excessive for what’s required.  She ends up slamming into him and bouncing off, a little further away than she was before.  That was not the plan.  He tugs her back, much more gently, and this time she ends up neatly tucked into his chest.

“So what are your vices, Beckett?” Not Kate.  Kate is softer and ever-so-slightly vulnerable and cuddlable.  Beckett is a siren, a lorelei, silk over steel.  Beckett has vices, and he intends to discover them.   Anyone who has underwear like hers – he thinks of the black chiffon slip: that’s not something you acquire or wear by accident – definitely has vices.  Very explorable, very desirable, and very shareable vices.

“Sometimes I like stories.  Sometimes I like story-tellers.”  She looks at him, all dark bedroom eyes and slow seductive smile.

“I knew that.”  He smirks, full of self-satisfaction.  “That’s not a vice, it’s a virtue.  When it’s the right story-teller.”

“Well, if I’m that virtuous, I’d better go home.  Virtuous women shouldn’t be visiting less-than-virtuous” – he raises a rakish eyebrow – “men after dinner time.”  She makes a rather unenthusiastic effort to stand up, more to see what will happen than from any desire to leave.  She only makes it halfway before she’s caught by the waist and pulled down into his lap, a little roughly, just enough to remind her that Castle’s a powerful man.   The arm around her is tight.

“I thought you paid attention to stories? Clearly you don’t read enough.”  She bridles at the insult.  She reads plenty.  Some of it isn’t even crime files or mystery novels.  “There’s only one ending when a supposedly virtuous woman visits a less-than-virtuous man at night and ends up sitting on his knee.”  His voice has dropped into the smooth molasses murmur from last night.  “Do you want to hear a story, Beckett?”

“Depends. Does it cover the scenario where the virtuous woman kicks the playboy’s ass?”  She’s still got this.  Probably.  She’s never sparred with Castle, and come to think of it he isn’t as soft as his occupation might imply.  He must spend a bit more time in the gym than she’d thought.

“That’s not a very likely scenario.”  That’s a challenge for another time, swathed in a velvet voice.  “Do you want to hear a story?”  She suspects she can predict it.  But she’s interested in how he tells it, after the effect of his words last night, and there’s a certain level of arousal sliding through her now that he’s wrapped her in and stopped her moving away.  Well-applied strength has its own charm.  A degree of slow restraint, more so.  And in mutually agreed circumstances, letting someone else take complete control might be very, very enjoyable.

“Suppose so.  Are you a good story-teller?  Will I enjoy it?”

“I think you’ll be thoroughly satisfied.”  The voice is lazy, the hold on her, not so much.  She essays a wriggle away, fails.  The hold tightens just a little more.  It’s clear escaping it would require considerable effort.  Just as well she doesn’t want to.   

“Bring it on.”

“It’s a mystery. A virtuous woman would never let herself be trapped in a compromising situation like this.  A virtuous woman wouldn’t be letting me put an arm around her, pull her down on to my lap, keep her there against me, with only a token wriggle.  A virtuous woman doesn’t wear the sort of underwear that looks best spread out across a bed and then across the floor.  So, Beckett, I don’t think she’s here because she’s a virtuous woman.  I think she’s here to indulge her vices.”

She smiles languidly at him.  “And what vices might those be?”

He takes an educated leap of faith.  All sorts of clues come together in his mind, the chiffon slip and her reaction to his reaction to it, how much she liked it when he’s pinned her wrists, even how she reacted to his words last night.  “Sometimes, she likes it a bit rough, a bit forceful.  Maybe she likes being held down.  Maybe she likes more.  Giving up control.”  And he bends slightly and takes her mouth, hard and possessive, holding her in tight, running a hand into her hair to keep her mouth in place.  And when she instantly opens under his lips, he knows he’s read her mood right. 

“I’ve got a prize to claim.” His tone has changed.  Still the velvet, but now not masking the note of command.  She squirms, just a little.  She has a feeling that she might get the best of both worlds: all the finesse she knows Castle can display cut with the forcefulness he’d displayed when she’d appeared in black chiffon.   She squirms again, testing the limits of movement within his grasp.  Not much.

“You’re staying right here, Beckett.  _You’re_ my prize.  I’m claiming you tonight.  You’re all mine.”  The sheer possessiveness takes her breath away.  She’s never allowed anyone to use that tone to her, ever.  Normally – well, previously: it’s hardly normally it’s been so long – she’d stop that cold, even if she was enjoying the game, ultimately she’d be the one in charge.  She doesn’t let herself be possessed.  Except.  Except that she trusts Castle not to abuse it; that he’ll stop the instant she indicates the slightest hint of discomfort or unhappiness with what they’re doing.  And there’s that deeper current under the possessiveness that she’s detecting more and more often.

He takes her back under his dominating kiss, pillaging her mouth while he begins to undo her button-down, tracing hard fingertips along the vee he creates, sliding demandingly under the silky top and the lace edge he can feel but not yet see.  He bites softly on her lower lip, right where she’s bitten it a hundred times that day and he’s wanted to kiss her every time, elicits a gasp that he smothers in the kiss.  She brings her hand up between them, glides down against the soft cotton of his shirt and the hard line of muscle underneath, slipping lower towards his waist, his belt, until he leaves teasing at the edge of her bra and takes her hand away, tucking it down under the arm that’s still tight around her.

“Uh-uh, Beckett.  It’s not your turn.  I’m going to be in charge tonight.  I’ll tell you when it’s your turn.  I’ve got plans for my prize.”  Oh, does he ever.  He’s spent almost the whole time since last night plotting.

Hmm.  Plans sounds good.  “What sort of plans?”

“Very… satisfying… plans.  You’ll see.”  He dips to kiss her hard again, finishes opening the buttons one-handed and pulls her shirt wide open, lifts his head and sets her off his lap.  When he gazes at her it’s sure, possessive and unmistakably hungry.

“The first thing I do, when I get a prize” – and he’s had a few, though none that meant so much – “is unwrap it and work out how best it should be displayed.”  He’s absorbing the sight of her, elegant in dark green silk and lace; he has some ideas already, assessing possibilities, caught by her infinitely touchable skin, just waiting to be kissed and stroked.

“I think, though, I need to finish unwrapping before I can decide where it would be best placed.”  That’s drawled out as if there’s all the time in the world.   Which makes it all the more surprising when he clips “Stand up, Beckett.”  The last time he’d used that tone, ten minutes later she’d reduced him to quivering wreckage before her.  She thinks today might have the opposite effect.  Just like then, it’s not a request.  Heat is dancing over her skin, excitement slithering through her nerves, allurement slinking along her veins.  Even if they weren’t touching, his words and voice and tone would have her wet and trembling till he chose to stop.  Like yesterday.  She stands up, obediently in front of him, tall enough in heels for his eyes to be level with her breasts.

Castle reaches up, slides her shirt off her shoulders and watches it fall off over her hands, rests his own hands on her waist, draws her in closer to him, kisses at the deep plunge of her bra, feels her shiver and leans back.  His thumbs flirt with the undercurve of her breasts: a slow, controlled seduction.  He’s completely in charge, she’s let him be – he knows that it’s only by her permission, her desire – and he’s going to use it to make her feel so, so good.

“Now I’m going to unwrap you some more.”  He slides his thumbs down to flick open the button on her dress pants and unzip them – it’s a neat trick – and then smooths both hands down over her hips, pushing the pants down and letting them, too, fall away, pooling on the floor around her heels.  His thumbs ghost over the front of her panties and she shivers, not from cold.

“Step forward, Beckett.”  He tugs a little, just to reinforce his instruction, exert a fragment of control, and she does, stepping out of the puddled fabric at her feet, standing poised at his knees in dark green silk and high heels.  The only clue that she’s not as cool as she looks is the slight rise and fall of her chest. 

“That’s more like it.”  He eyes her slowly up and down, letting his own heat and arousal show, openly admiring each curve.  “Where to have you?” It’s deliberate wording, and she draws in breath against the thought.  “So many options.  I’d better try them out.”  He leans forward and kisses her stomach, flicks his tongue into her navel, lowers his head and breathes across her.  “Feet apart, Beckett.”  Her lips are parted and moist.  For an instant she doesn’t move, and he thinks he’s gone too far; she’ll stop the game.  And then she does what he’s told her to,  shifting her stance under his hands on her hips, and he hears her breathing change from smooth to jagged and he understands that she’s as into this as he is, as he’d thought she’d be.

Being told what to do isn’t Beckett’s forte.  But the soft dominance, the hard body, and the wicked hands and mouth are already making the game oh-so-worth it.  She’s wet, waiting for what he’ll do and say next, waiting for the next touch.  His grip is firm around her, fingers on the edge of her panties, thumbs slipping underneath.  It’s so hot, to be standing open in front of him, waiting for him to take the next step.  Giving up control.

“Come forward.” He pulls again, and she’s standing wide across his knees.  “Lean on my shoulders.”  He doesn’t even have to bend forward to kiss her throat, down the centre line of her chest, turn to one side then the other and take her into his mouth, nip and lick and suck and pull and soothe, making her gasp and bite her hands into the muscle of his back. 

“You like that, don’t you?”  But he’s sliding away, moving downward with light hot breaths across her stomach, never moving his hands.  “Try not to move, Beckett.”  Moving away is the last thing on her mind.  She’s anticipating his next move, perfectly aligned with the game.  When he kisses the soft flesh of her inner thigh, she moans, wanting more.  He’s playing with her, not giving her what she wants.

“Castle, stop teasing.  Please.”  The final word is more of a whimper than speech. 

“All in good time, Beckett.  Patience is a virtue, one you should cultivate to balance all these vices you want to indulge.”  Each word is breathed out against her, over the damp silk.  “You’ll need to wait.”  He nips the smooth skin, traces the small indent with his tongue, feels her legs tremble. Just a little more, and she’ll be ready.

When she starts to lose words, desperate to have him in the right place but unable to do anything to make it happen, sighing out a long gasp that might be _please more please,_ he finally starts to give her part of what she wants, gliding his tongue very gently over the silk, moving the fabric over her, not touching or tasting directly at all.  She’s squirming helplessly, his hands on her hips the main support holding her upright.  When he thinks she’s nearly there, he stops.

“I want to see if you look better placed somewhere else.”


	37. And Yet With You

He pushes her back upright, balancing her, never letting go, and stands in one smooth movement, pulling her hard in against him.  One hand slips down over the curve of her ass, holding her pressed into his hips, the heat and weight he knows she wants to be close to; one moves to the nape of her neck and fixes her in place so he can slant his mouth across her and let her feel everything she does to him, everything he wants to do with her.  _Mine.  All mine_.  He’s never so much as wanted to be, never mind been, possessive about a woman before, even the two he married, has always been happy to quit without tears at any stage.  Even with Kyra, he never had this visceral response, this primitive reflex to have and to hold.  But he knows that this undiscovered possessive streak will need to be lost right now, because the chances of Kate Beckett allowing him to exercise it outside some very defined circumstances (such as they’re enjoying currently) are zero.  _No protection._

She’s moving backwards, to the bedroom, given the direction of travel, which is a decision that she’s perfectly content to have made for her.  Controlled, delicate teasing has its place, but she’s ready for something a little more definitive now.  Very much so.  Especially as she hasn’t missed the pressure he’s exerting to hold her as close against him as he can.  She shimmies a little at just the right angle and is rewarded with a sharp jerk and muted groan.  When she wriggles again, sliding over the hard weight, he stops walking her back and swings her up into his arms.

“No, Beckett.  You don’t get to set the pace tonight.  I do.  Now you’ll have to wait.  Be patient.” He kisses her some more, light and delicate, teasing and tasting and tantalising, until he drops her gently on his bed and sits next to her.  “Do you remember what I said on the phone?”  Her eyes are wide, pupils dilated.  She does.  He runs a hand over her body, feels the shiver.  “I think you look best here, in my bedroom.  I think I’ll just keep you here.”  He remembers that her shirt and pants are mostly in the middle of his living room, which is possibly a little more information than he wants to give to Alexis or his mother.  “I’m just going to get your clothes.  Don’t move.  When I come back, we’ll play.”

When he comes back, she’s where Castle wants to see her, any time, all the time, lying across his bed in _take-me-I’m-yours_ silk with a _come-and get-me-if-you-dare_ expression.  He leans on the shut door, watching her watching him, making it clear that even just running his eyes over her is another step down the path of slow, controlled arousal. 

“Going to stand there all night, Castle?”  The sultry voice trickles down his spine, pooling some way south of his navel.  Come hither doesn’t even begin to cover the effect her ripped-silk bedroom voice produces.  But he’s got this game, he’s in control.  For now.  He’s in no doubt that if she wanted to she could reduce him to incoherence in seconds.  And however much he’s pretending he’s in charge, however much they’re playing this game, the minute she wants to stop, they’ll stop.

“Just looking.  I’ll get there when you’re ready.”  She raises an eyebrow.  “I thought you remembered what I said on the phone.  You might be naked…”  He trails off on the last word, expecting her to take the hint.

“But on the phone,” she lets the sultry voice drip over him, “you’d undressed me.  You haven’t finished.”  She rests back on the pillows.  She’s happy to let him take charge, tonight.

“No, I haven’t.  So I’ll deal with that now.”  He comes across the room, big and dangerously focused, and sits back down next to her.  He doesn’t touch her bra or panties, nor the heels she’s still wearing.  Instead, he leans in and strokes the side of her face, runs his finger over her wet lips.  “Open, Beckett.”  He slips his finger into her mouth, and after she’s twined her tongue over it slides it slowly out and down between her breasts.  She catches her breath.  When he brings it back to her lips he doesn’t have to ask a second time.  This time his finger traces under the lace of her bra.  By the third time she’s panting, as he touches ever closer to the sensitive peaks of her nipples.  And then he stops, and bends over her to kiss her hard and fierce.  When he rises he runs his hands over her breasts, palming hard enough that she arches and pushes against him, letting him undo the clasp at her back.  His fingers feather forwards again, bringing the silk out from under her, and slip under the loosened fabric to stroke and slide and roll across her till she’s beginning to move and make the sexy little noises that he loves to cause.  “Like that?  Shall I do it some more?” She writhes a little.  “Use your words, Beckett.”

“Yes.  Please. More.”  By the time he glides the straps down her arms and drops the bra over the side of the bed _more_ has become a constant refrain.  When he moves down to run his fingers along the top edge of her panties, flicker them over the thin silk, never where she wants him to be, she’s gasping for breath, whimpering occasionally.  He can see the dampness darkening the silk to the same shade as her eyes: desire obvious in both.  He slips his fingers lower under the fabric, and she arches against him, trying to align herself to his touch.

“Stay still, Beckett.  It’s not time yet.”  She moans in frustration.  “I won’t hurry, however much you want me to.”  He starts to remove her panties, sliding them down, only touching the outer line of her legs, following with light kisses, further and further away from where he ought to be.  By the time he eases them over her heels she’s desperate.  “Just stay like that.”  He just wants to look at her, naked except for high heels, wet, and thoroughly excited.  “Yes,” he rasps.  “Just how, and where, you look best.”  He picks up one foot, takes off the shoe, lifts it to him and kisses the jut of her ankle, places it back down so that she’s slightly opened.  She squirms under his hot gaze, knowing he can see what he’s doing to her.  It excites her even more.  He divests her of the other shoe, and puts her foot back down so she’s wider apart.  “Stay like that.  Wait for me.”    She watches him undress, not letting her touch him.  Every so often he traces a finger over her stomach, gradually finishing lower and lower.  When he comes to rest beside her, skin to skin, he draws one final delicate line from navel down to finish between her legs and flicker over her, and the sensation is enough for her hips to jerk against his hand.

“Castle. More.”

“Not yet. I’m going to kiss you for a while.”  She bites her lip and sure enough she’s shivering with need.  He can see her laid out for him to play with.  He knows he’s pleasing her.  He swoops on her mouth, plunges in, dominates as she brings hands around his neck, and then his back, to try to pull him in, have his body on hers.  She wants his size and weight and mass, to be pressed down under his bulk, to have him hot and heavy between her legs.  He isn’t giving her any of that.  She’s panting and frantic and not being given what she wants, and it’s driving her wild.  He’s swallowing her moans as she makes them, starts to move round to nip her ear, lick on her neck where it makes her writhe, tiny nips and wet kisses till he reaches the spot where her neck meets her shoulder and bites, sucking, marking her.  “Just for tonight, you’re mine.  Say it, Beckett.  Say that you’re mine.”

“ _Tonight.”_  He bites again, and she moans louder, nails biting into him.

“You like this, don’t you?  But you want me to do more, don’t you, Beckett?  You want me to stroke your breasts and taste you like I did when you were standing in front of me.  You’re ready for it, aren’t you?  Ask nicely, Beckett.”

“Please.  Please.”

“Just like on the phone, Beckett.  Put your hands on the headboard and don’t move them.  If you move them, I’ll stop.”  She does as she’s told.  It’s shockingly arousing, to do what she’s told.   Once in a way. She can feel Castle’s reaction to her with every move.  He’s so good at seduction, the games she wants to play tonight.  Everything he’s saying and doing is bringing her closer to the edge.  She’s not sure that she’ll last much longer.  When he starts to glide large hands over her breasts her hips roll and it’s all she can do to keep her hands above her head on the headboard.  When he puts his mouth on her she starts to moan again, unable to stay still until he holds her in place.  She flexes and arches against him, trying to bring one leg up over his to get the friction he wants, but the way he’s holding her leaves her completely unable to.  She’s mewling, squirming, pleading, so close to undone but not quite there.   And then he bites gently over one nipple and she screams.

“Like that?” He repeats it on the other side and she screams again.  “Keep your hands where they are.”  He’s got plans.  By the time he’s finished, she’ll not just have forgotten her own name, she won’t be able to make her body move from his bed till tomorrow.  Although if she says she wants to go home, after, he’ll ring the car service himself rather than risk losing her again.

“I’m not just talking on the phone now.”  She can’t answer.  The predatory purr is just too much.  He’s still stroking, little rolls and pinches, watching her reduced to complete incoherence before he’s even gone below her waist.  This Beckett is also very seriously sexy.  Keeping himself from simply spreading her wide and thrusting as deep into her as he can go is becoming more and more difficult.  But he’s got plans. 

“Do I need to help you keep your hands in place?” She shakes her head.  Speaking is too complicated.  “Are you sure?” She shakes again.  “Good.  Obedience is another virtue, Beckett, along with patience.”  She’s now unbelievably aroused.  She’d never have imagined that the pronunciation of _obedience_ in that velvet voice could have perched her on the edge of oblivion.  Her hands on the headboard are the only thing keeping her in reality.  She needs him to touch her _properly_. 

He puts two fingers on her mouth.  “Open for me, Beckett.”  When he withdraws them, he trails them down her stomach and stops just before he gets to anywhere important, sensing the anticipation in her and building it further.

“Castle.  Lower. Touch me.”  He’s pressing against the outer line of her hip.  She wants him over her.  He starts to slip deft hands over her stomach and hipbones and round the outside of her legs, punctuated by ghost kisses that don’t quite result in his lips touching her.  She’s curving and arching and opening wider and in among the noises she’s making it sounds like she’s begging him.  He’s panting himself.  He’d planned to follow the path of the phone call but she’s just so hot like this and control is over-rated anyway and adaptability is key to any plan.  He brings his hand across and as he gets closer to where she wants him she’s beginning to cry out and _please don’t stop_ he dances over her inner thigh and _Castle please oh god please_ in towards her centre and _please please now don’t stop please_ he only has to run a finger through her folds from end to end for her to shatter under it.

“You’ve let go of the headboard, Beckett.  Put your hands back.”  Who’s Beckett?  But she does.  “Good.  You don’t want me to stop, do you?”  No.  Oh _hell_ , no.

“I want to touch you.  Why won’t you let me?”

“Because I won the prize.  And I get to do whatever I want with my prize.  And right now, what I want is to play with her.  ‘Sides, she’s enjoying being played with.”  That’s true.  Oh so true.  “And I’m in charge, tonight.  I want you all stretched out and just like we talked about on the phone.  Contemplate the twin virtues of patience and obedience, Beckett.  Virtues are their own reward.”  She doesn’t think that tone has anything to do with virtue at all.  She’s sure the _reward_ won’t.  But the aftershocks are fading and she’s excited again by her position and she knows exactly how excited Castle is because he’s hard and hot against her leg.  And then he purrs into her ear “You’ve been waiting for this, haven’t you?  You were having naughty thoughts in your bath about this, weren’t you?  You’ve been touching yourself when you think about it and imagine it and now you’re going to have it.” and he slides down the bed and she’s writhing before he even lays his hands on her hips and presses her down and motionless but he’s still talking in that predatory purr. “Don’t move your hands.”  She starts to whimper as he breathes across her. “Oh, _so_ excited, Beckett.  Does me being here like this do it for you?  Do you like being pliant and open for me to do this?”  There’s a noise that might be _yes_.  He blows a little harder over her and watches her try to move.  “Do you want me to taste you, Beckett?  Is that your vice?”  The noise that might be _yes_ comes again.  He tongues very lightly over her hipbone and when she bucks into his grip does it again.  “I’m going to make you scream for it, Beckett.”  She’s already almost there.  When he puts his mouth on her she doesn’t last long enough to do anything other than call out his name.

She’s let go of the bedstead again but this time Castle isn’t putting her hands back there. She’s done with being obedient, with this game.  She pulls him upward and he slides up over her body, obedient himself to her command, till he’s perfectly placed in the nest of her hips and almost exactly where she wants him finally to be.  She pushes against him, rewarded by a slow slide that fills her completely.  He pauses, seated wholly within her, and waits till she moves once more.  And that’s enough for him to lose all control and at last be able to pull both of them over the edge together with their arms around each other.


	38. It's A War

When Beckett wakes in the morning, they’re still curled up together.  She doesn’t want to unwrap herself, or leave, but she needs a shower and clean clothes and whilst one is possible at the loft the other is not.  She hasn’t thought that far about this thing they have, yet, but maybe she should, if she’s going to be that exhausted.  She smiles.  She wouldn’t want to play like that every – or even most – times, but as an occasional event it definitely had its place.  Though next time, she might reverse the roles.  Pursuing which thought is not going to get her home in good time to go to the precinct.  She pokes Castle in the ribs until he wakes up, grumbling, evades his attempts to kiss her (she won’t get in on time if he starts to kiss her now) and explains that she has to go home and change and she’ll ring if a body drops.  When his face falls a little that she doesn’t want him with her she points out that it’s another paperwork day, he hates paperwork, he’ll only be bored – and the clinching argument: if he stops complaining then dinner is at her apartment.  Of course, all that is subject to no new homicide.  She promises to call him as soon as there is one.

Left alone, Castle dozes gently for a short time.  He’s never naturally been a morning person and he doesn’t really see the need to become one now.  Besides, in his dozing he can dream about Beckett, which has only got _better_ now that they’re together.  But he wouldn’t want to repeat last night very often.  He likes Kate Beckett in all her incarnations, and mostly he likes her in full ass-kicking mode: snap, snark, sparkle and rolled eyes.  Still.  Vices and virtues definitely have their place.

He’s barely out the shower and shaved when Beckett calls about a new body.  He speeds through dressing and a late breakfast with his mother, who’s regarding him with a slightly odd expression.  He doesn’t have time to wonder what that’s about.  No doubt she’ll tell him soon enough.

* * *

 

Beckett, the boys and Lanie are all gathered round a body that’s been stabbed many times.  Seems it was only discovered when blood dripped through the ceiling and altered the decorators’ clean white paint to a violent shade of red.  Castle doesn’t think that it’ll catch on as an interior decoration technique, but has just enough sense not to say that.  It’s Ryan who tells them it’s one Jack Coonan, enforcer for the Westies gang, into some seriously nasty stuff.  Strange thing is, he’s carrying enough firepower to stop a Kodiak bear, so how the hell did someone get close enough to stab him? 

The only other thing of any interest at all – and it’s not much – in the apartment is several copies of a DVD by self-made business guru Johnny Vong: _I came off the boat with nothing, now I’m a multimillionaire, you can do it too_.  Castle, who certainly doesn’t need any more tips on how to make money because he’s got more than he can count already, and Esposito, who’s no particular need for more because despite the dating sites he’s still single, are both making fun of it.  They’re recalled to duty in short order, though Ryan, who’s probably wondering how he’s going to pay for Jenny’s birthday present, is still looking rather speculatively at the DVDs.

* * *

 

Coonan turns out to have a saintly younger brother, funding schools in Afghanistan.  Quite a contrast to the dead man.  He’s got nothing much to tell Beckett she didn’t already know: Coonan senior was a bad, bad man.  Looks like she and Castle will have to go and beard the Westies in their local bar.

Castle’s not saying much on the way to the bar.  The knife wounds on Coonan are nagging at him.  He’s sure he’s seen something like it before, but the memory just won’t come to the surface.  He settles for ignoring it in the hope that it won’t like that and will pop out.  In the interim, he can always pat Beckett’s knee. Approximately.  And get growled at, it seems.  That’s not fair.  They’re not in public now.  He whines a little, but it doesn’t get his pout kissed better. 

The Irish bar, and the Westie leader, are a complete washout.  Even when they find some rival gang member being knocked around in the back, haul him into interrogation, nothing pops.  The only good bit of the whole thing, in Castle’s opinion, was Beckett readying her service weapon.  That’s going into Nikki Heat.  And quite possibly Castle’s hotter dreams.

When Esposito traces the car the rival ganger used, and there’s a knife behind the sun visor, it’s all starting to look good, and Beckett thinks happily that maybe there will actually be a chance for the dinner at hers that she promised Castle this morning.

Of course, nothing’s ever that easy.  Lanie takes one look at the knife and rejects it out of hand as the murder weapon.  Not only is it the wrong knife, but the ganger they hauled in is far too short to have made the wounds at that angle.  So much for dinner, Beckett thinks, disappointedly.  They’ll be pushing on with the investigation till late into the night, if this is how each lead is going to fail.

As Beckett’s about to leave, Lanie hauls her back and gives her a glare worthy of Beckett herself, at her most belligerent.

“And just when did you intend to tell me that you and Writer-Boy had patched it up, huh?”  Beckett looks guiltily at her.  “How come I have to find out from Ryan and Esposito rather than my _best friend_ , huh?”  Beckett cringes.  Lanie in full flow is rather equivalent to being run over by a rhino. 

“Lanie, we’ve got a case here,” she tries.

“And did you have a case yesterday?  Or the day before?  Or should it be the day before that?  I don’t think so, girlfriend.”

“I didn’t say anything to Ryan or Espo.”

“You didn’t have to.  You think they wouldn’t spot the difference in atmosphere?  Or Writer-Boy stroking your hand every time he brought you coffee and staring at you like you’re the last woman on earth?  Well, even more than he used to, anyway.  Or just that he was there at all?  What sort of detectives do you think they are, Kate?  Of _course_ they noticed.”  Beckett’s staring at Lanie.  Well, hell.  So much for discretion.

“Okay, so we made up.”  Lanie gives her a triumphant look.

“Told you you should be together, right at the beginning.”

“I told you so is not an attractive thing to say, Lanie.”

“Maybe not, but I was right.”  Lanie’s smirk is a mile wide.

“Nor is that.”

“You go do your case.  But, soon as it’s over, you and me are going out and you are going to spill.  No arguments.”  There will be arguments.  But there isn’t time to have those arguments now.  If Beckett’s really lucky, Lanie will have cooled down before she next sees her.

Beckett thankfully escapes the monster that is Lanie in interrogation mode and the morgue.  Castle’s waiting at the entrance, staring out over the wintry street, lost in thought.  “Ready to go, Castle?” He jumps, and she sniggers.  “Did I scare you?”  He snaps into focus.  That trace memory is still not surfacing, and worrying at it isn’t helping.

“Detective, you terrify me.” But here, where there’s no-one to spot them and so he’s not likely to get too permanently maimed, he slings an arm around her for a moment and then whisks out the way just as she’s reaching for his ear.  She mutters darkly to herself.  “See?” he says.  “I’m terrified.”  He looks at her inquisitively.  “What did Lanie want?”

“Details,” Beckett says disgustedly. 

“Details?”

“Details about you and me.  Us.  Being together.”  She doesn’t sound particularly enthused about it.  He hopes that’s the details, not the together part.

“So?  You don’t have to hide me.  I’m a bit big to hide behind you, anyway.”

 _Here we go again,_ thinks Beckett dispiritedly.  Another thing they need to _talk about_.  They can do it on the way back to the precinct.  She gets in the car, turns on the engine, makes a production of checking mirrors and that it’s safe to move off.  Castle, she can tell, is perfectly aware that she’s delaying.

“It’s not that I’m hiding you.  Us.  This.  Whatever.  But it’s _private_.”  The emphasis on the last word speaks volumes.  Beckett’s not about the sharing, absolutely not.  Castle dimly realises that this, like so many other facets of Beckett’s character, has very little to do with him and a whole lot to do with the last ten years.  She likes to compartmentalise, to have each area of her life in a neat, tidy little box, to move from one to the next without cross-contamination.  And now here he is in her life, a virulent bacteria infecting her work and spreading to her private life.  _Ugh, what a horrible metaphor that one was.  Surely you can find something a bit less disgusting, Rick?_   And she doesn’t know how to deal with it in any way other than separation of the two states, her very own Berlin Wall between work and play.  “I don’t want it talked about and gossiped over.”

“So don’t.”  He shrugs.  He doesn’t really see the problem.

“Have you _seen_ Lanie in full flow?  It’s like stopping an avalanche.”  Maybe he does see the problem.  But this is Beckett, who is quite capable of not talking until the world ends.  So he still doesn’t see why she’s so bothered.

“What’s the real problem here, Kate?”  There’s something behind this.  “It’s not just talking to Lanie, is it?  She’s your friend, and she’s just doing what most friends do, taking an interest in your life.  So what is it?”  Her hands are white on the steering wheel.  They’re only a few minutes from the precinct.

“Bullpen gossip.”  She bites that off and stops.  He exudes a _tell-me-more_ sympathetic silence, waiting.  “Ever since you showed up, forced your way into following me around, the whole precinct’s been watching and waiting and speculating.  Will she, won’t she?  When?  Probably _how_ , too.  There’s even a pool on it.”  He knows that.  He is abruptly deeply, _deeply_ relieved that he hadn’t put any money in when Esposito asked him, way back when he’d been an arrogant ass convinced that it would only take him a few weeks, at the very outside, to charm her into his bed.  Then, he’d brushed Espo off with the comment that it was hardly fair for him to bet when he’d be sure to win.  He’d have lost, though.  Even if he’d won then, he’d have lost, because they’d never have got to this.  _Focus, Rick._

“Whatever you want to say is okay with me, Kate.  But we talked about publicity last night, and it’s going to be difficult to say nothing if the press do publish something.”  He’s taking this seriously, concern in his eyes.

“It’s private,” she says again, miserably.  They’re almost at the precinct, she’s starting to look round for a parking space.  “I don’t want people intruding.  Thinking they’ve got a right to know.  They don’t.”  Ah, there’s the nub.  Beckett’s intense privacy, forged in the pain of her mother’s death.  He remembers, briefly, painfully, her reaction to him prying into the case, months ago and that dreadful night more recently.  From what she’s saying about the instant problem, and more specifically not saying about the much bigger one, which they haven’t talked about at all, they aren’t yet on wholly solid ground together.  She’s found a space and is starting to reverse in.  They’ll have to finish this later.

“Beckett.  Kate.  We don’t have to put it on display.  It’s okay.  I don’t need you draped over me like a coat” – he grins – “though obviously that’s very nice, especially in my bedroom” – there’s a growl, but he can hear an edge of sardonic amusement under it – “so there’s no need to flaunt it.  But if you should want to flaunt me, feel free at any time.”  It works; she’s lightened up.  Just in time, really.  “We can talk about this later, if you want.”  He runs a very light, affectionate finger over the back of her hand before she exits the car.  “It’ll be okay.”

Back in the bullpen, the dead man’s calls have been traced.  Now that’s interesting, because he’s been making a lot of calls to an FBI number.  Enquiries about co-operation are initiated. 

At the end of the day there’s a reasonable amount achieved, but much to Castle’s disappointment Beckett sends him home without her, saying she wants peace, quiet and no silly theories.  Actually, she wants some space to think about the case, without being distracted by his closeness.  She feels she needs a night apart, recovery time.  It’s all too intense again.  She knows they’re on a sounder footing, but it’s still all too easy simply to go to bed.  They need time apart.  Once the boys are out the way, she’ll text and explain.  And then go to the gym to work off steam.  Or something like that.

Castle is honestly astonished that Beckett has bothered even to think about explaining why she sent him home. Let alone actually done it.  Okay, the explanation is hardly effusive, but she’s _communicating._   The world is certainly about to end.  He drifts off to sleep as happy as he’s able to be without her beside him.  She’s really trying not to shut him out.  She’s really, really trying.

* * *

 

Ryan isn’t paying attention like he should be the next day, as he’s too busy trying to get rich quick.  Sadly, the Johnny Vong DVD should have been checked in as evidence and his efforts to become a millionaire in easy steps are halted.  Espo spends quite a lot of the day taking revenge for the dating sites.

Astonishingly, the request to the FBI for co-operation has had a positive response.  That’s not normal, and Beckett’s natural pessimism is amply justified when the agent tells them that they hadn’t had anything formal in place – though the victim had reached out to them, offering up some drug dealer, as yet unidentified.  Another suspect about whom they don’t know the name, face, or any details.  As evening rolls in, the only lead they’ve still got is the Westies’ bar, so back they go.  It’s less than successful.  They’ve interrupted a wake, strike one, they’ve insulted the head man by suggesting he’s running drugs, strike two, and they’ve besmirched his man’s name.  Strike three.  They’re out.  Specifically, they’re told to get the hell out.  But though they go without a sign, one of the women’s been giving Beckett the look.

Castle’s noticed the _look_ , but when they get into the car to wait he can’t help feeling that there must be a better way of passing the time than sitting.  Or even talking.  And he _still_  hasn’t been able to retrieve that memory.  It’s beginning to get annoying.  Beckett’s staring out into space, probably running through scenarios and suspects and sources and suspicions in her head while she’s waiting.  Valuable as all that is, he has a better idea.  It’s late, it’s dark, and a dirty alley in the worst part of town is not where paparazzi like to play.  He slides a hand over her knee, and when that doesn’t achieve an immediate reaction moves it northward.  That does, but it’s not the one he’d hoped for.  Beckett’s entirely-too-sharp nails are digging into the back of his hand and she’s not looking particularly receptive.

“Ow!”

“What are you _doing_ , Castle?  We’re waiting for a witness, not parked in a make-out spot.”

He leers, hopefully.  “We have to pass the time somehow.  Making out would be an improvement on any other view around here.”  Beckett rolls her eyes, but he thinks she looks a little more interested than a moment ago.  Or at least she’s stopped stabbing him with those needle-nails.  He takes his hand off her leg and slides it up her arm to the nape of her neck, playing gently with her hair.  She breathes out just a little unevenly, eyes still scanning the bar entrance and surrounding area.  His fingers get a fraction bolder, dropping on to the soft skin below her ear and stroking round to cup her cheek.  She doesn’t stop looking for the girl, but she leans into his touch.  He thinks it’s an invitation.  When he traces over her lips and she nips his fingertip, he’s sure.  And when she turns her shoulder – but not her head - a little into him and her other hand comes around his face, he’s absolutely certain that he’s already at the party with the hottest cop in the room, so he does what he wants and kisses her, intending to be slow and thorough and kiss in a way that definitely indicates that later on there will be more.  Murder investigation permitting, of course.  But she doesn’t close her eyes for one second when he kisses her, just keeps searching the street for their witness, and far too soon for his liking shoves him away.


	39. Let's Have All The News

By the time Beckett’s reapplied the lipstick that he’d kissed off her and snitched a sweet, the woman’s appeared and they’ve got her in the car and on the way back.  Seems she was attracted by the corpse’s bad boy reputation.  Beckett looks at her sceptically, but the woman’s not having that. “You telling me you never had a thing for bad boys, Kate.”  That’s not something she’s going to comment on in front of Ryan and Espo.  She did, once.  She supposes, come to think of it, she does now.  Castle can be a very bad boy indeed, and it’s not just the made-up public image.  She declines to comment and sips her coffee demurely, carefully not blushing.  She knows that Castle will pick up on it later, but a private discussion of the…advantages… of bad boys is a wholly different matter to disclosing her history in the precinct.  Not an appropriate conversation at work.  Or indeed ever.

The girl is moderately informative: the dead man had never discussed business with her but she knew he wanted out.  Trouble was coming and he knew it.  He hadn’t let her sleep over last week, but normally she’d been with him every night.  There’s usually only one reason for that, but she’s adamant that he hadn’t had an affair.  And then they hit pay dirt.  The witness pulls off her chain, which has a key, which leads them to a bus locker – it’s always a bus locker – which is full of Johnny Vong DVDs.  Okay, so that’s a bit peculiar.  But when they open one, it’s full of a suspicious white powder.  Beckett slits it open with a handy pocket knife, touches her finger to the powder, licks the powder off and gives Castle a heated look that the boys can’t see (it says _I could be doing this to you_ ).  Castle confines himself to telling everyone how cool that is, but Beckett saw the flash of heat in his eyes and she knows he’s thinking what she could do with her mouth.  She smirks at him.  That’ll teach him not to start making out at a stakeout when she’s concentrating.  The drive back to the precinct is quite peaceful.  Castle doesn’t seem to want to talk.  In fact, he seems quite distracted.  There’s a very dreamy, blissful expression on his face.

The ride home is a whole other matter.  By the time they’ve got to Beckett’s apartment – somehow Castle had been impervious to all her hints and suggestions that he might want to get home and had made it very clear that wherever she was going, he would follow – his hand has travelled from her knee to arrest-warrant locations and she’s been gritting her teeth and chewing her lip so that she can concentrate on the road and absolutely not pull over and throw herself on him.  Her parking is rapid and less tidy than usual.  By the time the elevator’s reached her floor her hair isn’t as tidy as usual either.  And when he shuts the door behind him and shoves her against it and kisses her like he really, really means it, it doesn’t look like her clothes are going to stay tidy for long either.

Castle’s comfortably sure that now he’s in the right place at the right time, as he devotes considerable attention to kissing Beckett with enough emphasis to show her that licking heroin off her finger and giving him _come-on-then_ looks is only a good idea if they can do something about it.  But then Beckett puts her lips and then teeth on the pulse in his neck and rocks into him exactly where he wants her to be and he gives up any semblance of coherent thought at all.  Just holding on to enough control to stay vertical is suddenly complicated.  He’s only too relieved when she spins him round and presses him into the door: at least that way he has some support, and he can concentrate on sexy-assertive Beckett, not on keeping his knees locked.  He’s at least managing to keep one hand across the small of her back, holding her in while she moves, and one tangled into her hair, in hopes that shortly he can take back her mouth.  Otherwise, he’s already a mess.  He spent the entire ride back to the precinct thinking about Beckett’s exceedingly talented mouth, and he is absolutely sure that she meant him to.  He’s also absolutely sure that she did it because he’d kissed her when she was watching for the witness and couldn’t either shoot him or respond.  And now he’s wound all the way up and struggling for any control at all and he is perfectly certain that she has some plans of her own.  Unfortunately, he’s not at all certain that he’s going to like them.

She pulls back from nipping over his clavicle and holds his shoulders flat against the door – of course he’s so much bigger that if he really wanted to move she couldn’t hold him there for half a second, but she’s suddenly glaring at him and he thinks he’s probably in enough trouble already without provoking her further.

“You _do not_ kiss me at a stakeout again.  Got it?  You do not do _anything_ that gets in my line of sight.”  Oh.  He hadn’t really thought of that.  Still.  There’s a lot of options that don’t get in the way of sightlines.

“Does that mean I can do anything that _doesn’t_ block your line of sight?  I can think of lots of things that wouldn’t.  Starting with sliding my fingers over your leg and up and –“

“ _No_.  You don’t do anything that breaks my concentration.”  Now what?  That’s removed most of the more pleasurable possibilities for passing the time.

“Does that mean I can’t even talk?” he whines.  He wants sexy-assertive Beckett back, not a lecture on stakeout etiquette.

“No, Castle.  You can talk.  You will anyway, but if you’re talking it won’t break my concentration because I can let your far-fetched theories wash right over me.”  He scowls sulkily at her, apparently deeply offended.

“My theories are not far-fetched.  They’re perfectly reasonable.”

“Only if you’re living in the X-files.  This is Manhattan, not Mars.  Aliens do not exist.  Conspiracy theories and ninja assassins don’t exist.  Not every – or even any – witness or suspect or victim or murderer is a CIA agent in disguise.”

“So all I can do on a stakeout is talk?”

“Yes.”

“Does that apply to road trips too?”  There’s a suspicious glare up at him.  Beckett can hear something that makes her think he’s had an idea.  There’s a little less childish sulk going on and a little more childish _I’ve-got-a-secret_ tone.

“Yes.  Unless you want to walk everywhere.”

“Okay,” he grumps.  “All I’ll do in your car is talk.”  Oh, he’ll talk.  Just like the other night on the phone.  She’ll see.  Or rather, hear.

But now he’s conceded the point, she stops glaring and pinioning him and brushes against him in that boneless, feline way that drives him mad and purrs, “We’re not at a stakeout now, Castle,” and he stops planning words and starts practising gestures.

“Something up, Castle?”  She shimmies against him in a way that says she can tell exactly what’s up.  He’s pressing her up against him and untucking her shirt and back to kissing her as if he wants to pick up where they left off in the car waiting for the witness.  She thinks that’s a fine idea.  Still.  He had it pretty much all his own way the other night, and she neither wants to play that game – either side of it – tonight, nor does she want to let him keep reducing her to a melted puddle of incoherent need, no matter how much she enjoys it, without knowing that she can do the same to him.  She very much needs to know that they’re on level terms.  Sensual, and sexual, dominance games are one thing.  A general imbalance of power in bed would be a very different problem.  She does, vaguely, wonder where this need of his to give everything and take little comes from, though it’s very obvious that he’s completely satisfied when he does.  But that’s for later.  Right now she’s got better things to do. 

She takes a firm grasp on his neck and pulls him into a slightly better angle, duels her tongue into his mouth and uses his surprise at the suddenly-turned tables to open enough of a gap between them that she can reach the buttons of his shirt.  She’s slipped them all open, mostly pushed it off his shoulders, and her hands are drawing delicate patterns over his chest and lower before he’s managed to work out what’s going on.  Though it doesn’t seem to take very long until his body does.  He’s making some very interesting sounds.  Some of them sound very like _please_.  Some of them are merely profane.  Some of them are just noises.

Castle is left rather behind the curve of what’s happening.  One minute he’s kissing Beckett and sliding his hands under her shirt and generally making it very clear that he’s seriously interested in passing second base, and the next he’s _being_ kissed up against the door and rather rapidly stripped of his own shirt.  It’s certainly effectively distracting him from his own aims.  Thinking is increasingly difficult, because all the blood that should be round his brain – isn’t.  He rolls against her, so she can’t mistake what she does to him.  He’s not sure she really understands that he’s at least as undone by her – and possibly far more so – as she ever is by him.  But he’d decided long ago – even before Meredith cheated on him - that he was never going to be the sort of selfish lover who took his own satisfaction and left his partner to chance.  That would be a short route to watching relationships end before he was ready to quit.  He’s always needed to be sure that he’s desired, just like he needs to know that he’s liked, and the best way to achieve that security, he’s previously found, is to be very, very good in bed.  It doesn’t hurt that he also finds it very, very pleasurable to leave his partner completely and utterly satisfied.  However she likes it.  He’s pretty catholic in his tastes.  But right now his tastes are more than fulfilled by the woman in his arms.  Who is doing considerably more than just _tasting_ him.  She has very clever fingers.  And mouth.  And teeth.  And fingers again.  He’s sure he used to have a name.  He’s sure he should be doing something in return.

And then he can’t even think about what she’s doing or he’s not doing; he can only respond to the increasingly urgent desire _not_ to stop Beckett sliding _oh just like that_ downward and _oh god_ reducing him to incoherent gasps and groans and _oh fuck_ _Beckett don’t stop_.  He’s left slumped against the door, utterly undone.  Until she tugs him into the bedroom, shoves him down on the bed and turns him into helpless wreckage all over again.  By the time she’s tired of dismantling him and lets him return the favour he barely knows which way’s up and is in no way capable of his usual finesse.  But strangely, it doesn’t seem to make a difference to her.  To the extent he _can_ think, which isn’t much, he ponders the feeling of security that gives him all the way home.

* * *

 

They may be working on a live case, but the next day’s effort is all based around the precinct.  It’s just as well.  After Castle had left, Beckett had been woken by the shattering dreams of her mother, stabbed.  The new homicide must have triggered it: must have been the wounds.  She’d been in too early, gone to the gym to spar before turning to the current case, to take her mind off the nightmare.  She’d had three strong coffees before Castle had wandered in, bearing further coffee and breakfast.   Her make-up is extremely carefully applied, though she can’t suppress a wince when she thinks that she’d made sure that the concealer under her eyes is a shade or two lighter than her normal tone.  She’s still shaky with the aftermath, but she thinks that the bear claw will take care of that, with a bit of luck, before anyone – Castle - notices.

Castle does notice, make-up not sufficient to hide the drained look of too little rest, and it doesn’t make him happy.  She’s not slept well, he can see, and though the slight tremor in her hand is diminishing with every bite of pastry it shouldn’t be there at all.   She should have texted him, or rung him: he’d have been happy to talk her down from the phantasms that haunt her.  Just when he thought she wasn’t shutting him out, there are still these areas where he can’t seem to get past her inhibitions, her need for privacy, to run and hide, alone.  He can’t resolve that now, she’s working full out, building on the evidence, running scenarios and suspicions, the day passing in the metronomic allegro beat of cop work.

Beckett is building a picture in her mind, the jigsaw pieces of evidence slotting into place as the hours click by.  She thinks that the Westies, whatever their other sins, are out of it.  There’s nothing to tie them to Johnny Vong DVDS or to drugs – they’ve never been involved in drugs: it’s about the only criminal enterprise they’re not in the middle of.  If they find the dealer, they’ll find the killer.  Someone in New York needed to know _which_ DVDs were loaded with heroin, and it has to be someone in Vong’s organisation.  It’s too late to start on that now, as when they pick up whoever it is, they’ll want a clear run at interrogation.  Better to do it in the morning.  Anyway, she could seriously use some sleep.

She’s packing up to go when she notices that Castle is rather obviously by her side.  She’d thought he hadn’t noticed anything wrong, mainly because he’d not said anything about it all day, but clearly she’d been wrong.  He’s wearing that concerned, serious look that she’s beginning to recognise as _I know you don’t need protected but at least talk to me_ , and under it she can see a dusting of hurt.  When she’s sure the boys aren’t watching she runs a very rapid finger over his hand on the desk, a touch that says _I’m not shutting you out_ , and says, “Come on, Castle.  I’m out of here.”

She isn’t saying anything to him in the elevator, nor as they exit the precinct.  But once they’re a couple of streets away, she moves a shade closer to him and suggests coffee, or a glass of wine – she’s easy about which – before they call it a day.  Castle recognises it as an attempt to open a discussion, and since that was what he’d been going to suggest, well, he supposes it works for him.  He only wishes that it wasn’t because she’d shut down around another nightmare, without him.  He’s hurt by that.  He knows that it wasn’t going to be easy and all fixed immediately; he knows it’s childish to feel rejected, especially when she’s explained how she functions to him, not four days ago.  But he does, and so he pulls her into his encircling arm and takes security from contact, just having her walking within his clasp.

She doesn’t move away.  She understands this need to touch, now, understands that he’s insecure again.  They’re almost at the rustic Italian: as good a place as any for coffee, and they turn into the doorway and the same booth as last time, sitting across from each other.  Coffee ordered, Beckett steals a hand across the table and lays it over Castle’s: understanding and comfort in one gesture.  He turns his hand up to grip hers.

“You had a nightmare.”

“Yes.”

“You could have called me.”

“I need space to deal with…things.  I’ll always need space, sometimes.  It’s who I am.  I can’t change that, Castle.”  

He looks straight at her.  “I know that, Kate.  I just wish…” He trails off.  What he was about to say is simply pointless.  Things.  That elephant still in the room; the remaining chasm that holds him apart from half her life.  Her mother’s case.   “But...but if you need to, you can call.  No matter when it is.”

She gives him an equally direct look back.  “ _If_ I want to, I will.” That’s not quite the answer he’d like.  _Need_ and _want_ are not the same.  It’s very possible that she will _need_ to but won’t _want_ to.  And won’t call.  “But this is not a situation where you can just say _call me_ as if everything will all be fine.  I’ve been dealing with this for years.  I need time and space.  Don’t try to unpick it.  You need to give me space, just like you’ve done most of today.”

He understands the none-too-subtle warning, as well as the implicit apology.  She did warn him, days ago, that this was her coping mechanism, and he was already forgetting in the warm – not to say hot – glow of their resumed relationship.  Still work to be done, for both of them.  So, a night apart, because sex now won’t fix this, it’ll just mask it.  From the twist to Beckett’s mouth, she’s reached the same conclusion.  Time to go to their separate homes.


	40. How Long, Oh Lord

Much to her relief, Beckett’s had a clear night’s sleep.  She wants to be on top of her game when they start trying to pick up whoever it is in Johnny Vong’s money-making empire who’s dealing heroin on the side.  His show’s in progress, though in its last few minutes, when the four of them get there: the power of suggestion – or lots of dollars – overcoming the inhibitions of what looks like hundreds of screaming groupies volunteering to walk over hot coals.  Ryan looks as if it might be a good plan until Esposito dissuades him.  Just as well.  He’ll need his feet.

Vong’s quite happy to start talking to them, right up to the moment they tell him that someone’s dealing heroin from his venture.  At that point he hits Mach One on the way to the exit.  Fortunately Ryan and Esposito are capable of Mach Two and Vong, still barefoot, is hauled back to interrogation to explain himself.  Maybe if he hadn’t been walking over hot coals they wouldn’t have been as lucky.  So much for mind over matter.

Interrogation is not particularly successful.  Beckett threatens Vong with nearly everything she can think of: ten years of time, protection, deals, but nothing’s shifting him.  He’s nervously chatty when they start, but when he hears that Coonan’s dead he clams up and doesn’t give them anything.  Whoever’s behind this, Vong’s more afraid of them than of prison.  He’s taken off to processing and it’s back to the murder board.

The moment Lanie appears in the precinct, followed by Dr Murray, Castle’s missing memory pops and he finally remembers – _oh fuck no, not this, not now_ \- exactly where he’s seen this pattern of knife wounds before.  Everything is about to collapse in on Beckett, and there is nothing he can do, no time to warn her or stop it.  She’s going to be eviscerated in front of the team.  And she doesn’t even know it, looking confusedly at Lanie and more so at the second pathologist behind her, furrowing her brow when Castle admits to knowing him.  He didn’t even know Lanie was consulting him.  He didn’t even know Lanie had remembered what he’d said in the morgue ambulance back in September before they got hijacked.  It’s slow motion disaster, unreeling in front of him.

Lanie explains that she’d consulted Dr Murray because he’s the best forensic pathologist in New York and she’d needed a second opinion on the Coonan case.  He gives the briefing on the wounds, and Castle waits, keeping the tension off his face, keeping his twisting hands and white knuckles out of sight, watching Beckett concentrate on the detail of the case.  Until Murray tells her that the blows were struck with such force that there were slivers of blade in both victims, when her head snaps up. 

“Wait – two victims?  How many people has he killed?”

“Five that we know of.”

“So we’re looking at a serial?”  She hasn’t got there yet.  For all the time she’s spent with her mother’s case, she simply isn’t seeing it.  With every minute that this continues, the rock fall of realisation will be more damaging.

“No.  We believe,” Murray says, “we’re dealing with a professional with military training.”

“A contract killer.”  Where has she seen that before?  She can’t place it while she’s concentrating on the current case.  Dr Murray’s still explaining; telling them that the murder was by a single blow, all the other wounds simply to disguise the skill and training employed.

“The very same method,” Murray says slowly, “that the killer employed ten years ago.”  And it all comes crashing down around her.  The wounds, the method, her failure to make the connection with the file she’s pored over for years.  They’re chasing her mother’s killer, on this current case.  She hadn’t seen it.  All her work, and she hadn’t seen it.  She’s distantly aware of the pathologist, Lanie, Castle sitting on the other side of the table, frozen, but they might as well be behind thick glass. She can’t focus on anything.  She hadn’t seen it.  She’s failed.  She’s not even noticed that she’s picked up the same type – maybe the same – knife that killed her mother, staring at it in fascinated horror, transfixed by it.  She hadn’t even seen the connection.  She’s failed, again.  She’s let her mother down, again.

Castle’s watching the freeze-frame atrocity that is Beckett’s reaction, realisation of the meaning of the evidence sliding over her.  He can see her shutting down before him, shields slamming up, eyes shuttered, pain walled inside.  He doesn’t dare speak, still less reach out to her.  He can see her blaming herself.  When she stands, rigidly controlled, exuding _touch-me-not_ with every unsteady breath, they let her exit the room alone. 

Castle tells Lanie he’ll see Dr Murray out, needing to be out of the tight-strung atmosphere smothering the bullpen for just a moment, not wanting to risk doing anything that will cause Beckett to pull away further from him, all of them.  He won’t be able to stop himself going to her, protecting her, if he doesn’t take a moment away.

When he comes back up, he’s just in time to see Beckett’s unyielding back retreating into Montgomery’s office.  Five minutes later, she doesn’t even register him standing there as she plucks her jacket up and leaves in swift, desperate escape.  He thinks she’s crying, calls after her – it’s the first time he’s ever used her given name in public – but if she hears, she isn’t showing it.  She’s gone.  Fled the situation.  Alone and agonised again.

All the progress they were so tentatively making, the small steps to open up, the increments of communication on her part and security on his, razed in an hour.  All this progress, and they’ve been sucker-punched by her mother’s case.  She left without even _seeing_ him there.  It didn’t even occur to her that he might be there.  That she could look to him, say something, anything.  Even if it was just…just what?  What do you say when your world implodes?  She just left: shut down, shutting out, withdrawing.  The abyss has opened up between them.  He can’t bridge it.  He can’t follow her.  All he can do is wait.  _No protection_.  For either of them, it seems.  He can’t protect her, and he can’t protect himself from the consequences of that.  The first time they’ve hit the core issue head on, and right now it looks like they’ve both shattered on it. 

He has no confidence at all that she’ll come back, either to the case or to him, and he doesn’t know what he’ll do without her.  His gut twists.  He’d started this, back when he’d seen Dr Murray, close on a year ago.  If he hadn’t, hadn’t told Lanie what had been found, by whom, would Lanie ever have sought out the other pathologist’s opinion now?  Would it all just have stayed unknown, undiscovered?  But that wouldn’t have been any better, because at some point in this case Kate would have worked it out herself and he’d still be staring over the chasm between them, watching her retreat.

He leaves without a word to anyone.  What could he say, anyway?  Everyone’s seen her go, heard him call her with no result.  There’s a susurration of _goodnights_ behind him, but he won’t turn to see the concern in their faces, won’t reply.  If he turns, or speaks, he’ll break.

A long time later, alone in his loft, he thinks that if they’re broken anyway, he has nothing to lose by texting her.  Just in case she’ll accept support.  He can’t see that she will.  _She hadn’t even seen him standing there._   But he has to try.

* * *

 

She’s sitting in her car in a dead-end street, staring down the night, going nowhere, as the time ticks by.  She’s too violated to cry, too appalled by her own inadequate abilities as a cop to see anything  beyond them.  She’s failed.  She’s let her mother down again.  And now she has to face her father, who pulled himself out of his failure and succeeded in rebuilding.  Not like her.  All her nightmares, made manifest over the pictures of the wounds.  She shouldn’t be a detective, she can’t do the job.  Whatever Captain Montgomery says.

A text beeps on her phone.  _I’m at the loft, if you want anything._   Nothing more.  No demands, no requests.  Up to her.  No pressure to talk.  _If_ , not _when_.  She doesn’t answer it.  She can’t answer it. Nikki Heat is a kick-ass successful cop, not a failure who can’t solve the most important case of her life.  She stares out into the sodium-lit dark through the sheeting rain, drafting resignation letters in her head. 

Finally, she drives to the café to meet her father.  But after all her fears that he’d blame her, he’s on her side, reassuring her that she can handle whatever comes.  Truth’s her weapon to wield, just as much as her service piece.  Her father’s clear and unconditional love for her, his confidence that she will do, be able to do, the right thing, comforts her, pulls her part-way back, far enough for her to begin to draw herself together, start to rebuild, remember the good she does and the victims she’s stood for.  She can’t cease being a Homicide cop.  Giving that up because of this one failure, however large it is, would be true cowardice.  She’s _not_ a coward.  She _will not_ let this break her.  She won’t go down that rabbit hole again.  _Fidelis ad mortem_.  Faithful unto death.  She’ll be faithful.  She’ll be faithful to her job, and to her mother’s case, and to herself.  She can do this.  She will do this.

And once she and her father are finished, there’s somewhere else she needs to go.  One other person who knows enough to help her find the truth, with no need to let anyone else be privy to her pain.  He’s seen it all already.  But still, she doesn’t announce her intention to arrive; spends long minutes in the parking space she’s found below the brownstone, scared of asking for help, scared of opening more wounds, baring more scars.  She’d told Montgomery she didn’t think she could do this.  She still isn’t sure she’ll succeed.  But she’s sacrificed ten years, any chance of a life outside work, and every ounce of becoming the best Homicide cop she can be, into this.  She can’t stop now.  If this is the price of finding her mom’s killer, she’ll pay it.  Pay anything.  She steps out of the car.

* * *

 

Castle has spent most of the evening in his study, wrapped in wretched contemplation of the day.  When he does come out, to force down dinner with his mother and Alexis and pretend everything isn’t quite as dreadful as it is, his mother is still regarding him with the sidelong expression she’d had the other day.  He’s not interested.  He’s just waiting, hoping that his phone will ring, a text will chime, anything; though all he expects is silence. _She hadn’t even seen him standing there._

His mother is not – when is she ever? – deterred by his obvious unsociability.  At least she’s waited till Alexis has gone back upstairs to launch her latest Exocet.

“Richard, darling, why did I see Detective Beckett leaving the building at six the other morning?”

“Mother, why were you coming in at six?  Shouldn’t you have been getting your beauty sleep?”  Distract, distract, distract.  This is not a conversation he wants to have at any time, but especially not now. Not when it’s all in ruins.

“Stop changing the subject, Richard.  Are you and Detective Beckett” –

“ _Enough_ , Mother.  Beckett and I are not anything.”  She’s finally silenced.  He stalks back to his study, goes back to staring at the walls.  His phone remains silent.

* * *

 

When the loft door sounds, still later, Castle’s expecting Chet, or some friend of Alexis’s.

It’s Kate. 

It’s not a hallucination, it’s Kate.  He’s incapable of understanding it: it’s such a complete reversal of everything he’d expected since she’d fled the precinct alone.  He’s too stupefied even to be elated.  And while his mother is greeting her with hugs and dramatics and very unsubtly pulling Alexis away upstairs, he stands frozen in the face of her courage: can see that despite her pain she’s somewhere found the focused strength to carry on. 

She hasn’t blocked him off, she hasn’t shut him out.  She’s _here_.  Whatever purpose she brings, however she may limit his involvement, she’s _here_.    She bridged the gap.  It means everything.

“I will do anything that you need.  Including nothing, If that’s what you want.”  It’s all up to her. _No protection_.  He really means it.  He will do nothing, if she asks him to, excruciating though that would be.  He’ll do whatever she needs.  He can’t give less than she does.  Can’t be less than she is.  Because she’s come here, to him, and hasn’t shut him out.  She’s stood up to be counted.

 “What I want is to find my mother’s killer.”

 “Well then, we need to break Johnny Vong.”

 “So let’s break him.”

She stares at him, then, seeing the depth of emotion on his face, in his eyes, and suddenly all the changes in him, pieces of information he’s dropped, hints and clues and admissions that she didn’t know she’d spotted, right from the very first day she pulled him out his book party; the whole kaleidoscope forms into one coherent picture.  She knew he cared, has known that since they talked after Kyra in the rough Italian near the precinct, but this is so much more than that.  She’s terrified by it, standing frozen in his loft.  Her first instinct is to run away from it, crawl back into her frozen, static little world, before all this began, before she had to make room for another…something, not just the case that’s defined her life.  Now is not a time when she can think about what that _something_ might be.  It’s too big.

He’s standing still and silent, waiting for her to speak, to move.  The seconds draw out, and he knows that she’s on the knife-edge of decision, half a step from leaving, shutting down.  If that’s what she needs, he can suffer it for her.  He can do anything for her.  But how she deals with this avalanche of pain has to be her choice.  He won’t signal either way.  Just like the coffee bar, the Italian, he won’t bias her decision.  But _oh_ , he hopes so desperately that she’ll come to him.


	41. See A World Reborn

She steps forward towards him, not backwards to the door.  He opens his arms to receive her and hold her to him, sensing the shudders of pain, the hot tears, the release of the agony that today had become.  She’s living the prelude to all her nightmares, here and now.  But as he clasps her, strokes over her hair and back in comfort, all he can think is that for the very first time she’s turned to him for solace, not stepped away and hidden.  He holds her tighter, feeling her lean against him, not the numb, unresisting, static misery of all the times before, but a conscious searching for ease in his strength.  He brings her to the couch and sits her down, kneeling in front of her with his arms around her, where she can stay resting against his shoulder until she’s taken what she needs from him.  He doesn’t speak, barely breathes, gentling her as if she were some rare creature that’s unaccountably come to him and will escape again if he’s anything other than wholly calm and silent.  And finally the tears stop and he comes to sit next to her, and she curls as close into him as she can get, the pulse in her neck slowing as her rasped-out breathing does, slowly re-establishing control.  He has to force himself to loosen his arms, to let her know in the tenor of his touch that she’s not confined, restricted, protected.  The next move is up to her, just like it always has been in their relationship, him waiting for her to be ready to take the next step, waiting for her to go forward.

When she takes the stride towards him, not away, she knows that she’s overcome the biggest barrier between them: she’s accepting help, comfort, support from someone else.  She gives up all the pent-up emotion of this world-shattering day into his wide shoulder, leaning in to seek the warmth and strength that she’s finally ready to rely on.  Because he will do what she needs.  Including nothing, if she asks him to.  She knows that doing nothing would hurt him almost unbearably, to be made to sit back and watch as she puts herself through the newly inflicted pain of a live lead on her mother’s murder, to sit back and watch as she shuts down, shuts out everything and everyone until she’s exhausted the lead and herself.  But he’d do it.  From the look on his face as he said it, he’d open his own jugular if he thought that would help find the killer.  But she’s stepped forward, not back.  She’s not shutting him out.

After he sits down and tucks her in beside him, once the crying is done, it feels to her, for the first time, like she’s come home.  It’s more than ten years since anywhere really felt like home; this, here, now, an  unexpected, unfamiliar sensation that she isn’t sure she’s comfortable with.  But Castle’s arms loosen and she realises that no-one’s trying to clip her wings, confine her in a small space, restrict her.  _He understands_.  At last, she fully appreciates that he understands her need for space.  He might find it difficult, will no doubt always want to be closer to her mood or emotions or upset than perhaps she’ll ever be able to agree to, but he really does understand her.  She stays curled in, bringing her arms around him to hold herself close, trying to show him without words that she’s prepared, now, to be supported when she needs it.  That she’s prepared to let him support her.

Castle feels Beckett’s arms close round him and the soft relaxation of her body, shifting slightly to gain purchase around him.  He’s not immediately sure what has happened here, but something has clearly changed.  Out of the anguish of this day, epiphany.  Whatever is happening in these ephemeral moments while she’s wrapped against him, the far greater alteration is that she has finally, _finally_ , turned to him when she needs support.  Wherever this case goes now, whatever tortures it inflicts upon her – them: if she hurts, he will hurt right along with her – that’s a river she can’t cross back over: her own personal Rubicon.  _Mine,_ he thinks again, but not with the same sexual possessiveness of the other night, rather with a bone deep feeling of _rightness_.  And then – _hers_.  Because he is, with that same sensation of rightness. They’re – theirs.  A pair, complete.  And when the stress of this case is over, there will be time to deal with what that might mean, to speak his mind.  _Whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge._  

They stay close, quiet, unmoving, for a long time.  It’s late now, they can’t go to break Vong till the morning.  Even lying, drug-smuggling scum have rights, and not being hauled into interrogation rooms after midnight – as it would be by the time they got there, got him out – is one of them.  Besides which, to do this right – and she has to do it right, can’t let her mother down, can’t afford to fail - Beckett needs a clear head and her emotions out the way.  Neither situation is currently wholly reliable.  So she sits, leaning in slightly in the crook of Castle’s arm, head on his shoulder.  She’s well over halfway to sleep, wholly wrung out by the day, and she should go home.  She ought to go home.

“Kate,” Castle murmurs, slightly uncertainly, “you’re falling asleep here.  Which is very nice, but...do you want me to call you a car service to take you home?”  He can see all the frightening similarities to the last time she was this tired in his loft.  This time, he won’t make the same mistake.  She’s not a child to be managed.  He waits for her to comprehend the words, to make her own decision.

She levers her eyelids up.  She ought to go home.  Her exhausted mind produces one last flash of inconvenient truth, that if she goes home now, alone, the nightmares will be waiting at her bedside.  She won’t sleep, or if she does she’ll dream.  Her eyes close again.  She’s almost completely out of it.

“C’n I stay?”

“Sure.”  He’s not yelling excitedly _of course you can, of course, tonight, this week, this year, forever?_   He’s very calm and serene.  “Guest room?”

An eye half opens and there’s a confused, hazy look.  “With you.  No nightmares.”  What?  Okay.  He can cope with that.  Oh yes, he can cope with that.

“Come on then, Kate.  Let’s get you to bed.”  He half-lifts her with an arm about her waist, steers her gently in the direction of the bedroom, balancing her stumbling progress.  The third time she trips he swings her up into his arms, ignoring the sleepy protest that she can walk.  He lays her on the side of the bed she seems to prefer and goes to find her a T-shirt.  When he comes back she’s already asleep.  He undresses her carefully, not wanting to wake her, but wanting her to be comfortable.  He manages to find a way he can slide the T-shirt on, though he’s no longer sure that anything short of a bomb would rouse her, tucks her under the comforter and goes back out to the main room, to make himself a coffee and consider the events of the day.

His distressingly nocturnal mother appears before the coffee’s even brewed, inquisitive eyes drilling into him.

“Has Detective Beckett gone, Richard?  I didn’t hear the door.”

“She’s asleep,” he says shortly.  His mother gives him her patented sardonic look.

“Should I ask where?  You didn’t bring her up to the guest room, Richard.”  That’s not exactly subtle.

“Mother, this is none of your affair.”

“No, it’s clearly you who’s trying to have an _affair._   But should you really be taking advantage of her when she’s this upset?”

“I’m delighted to find you have such a good opinion of me.  But rest assured that I will not be taking _advantage_ of the situation.”  It’s spat out.  He’s genuinely angry that his mother can think that.   His mother’s expression alters from the marginally malicious to complete comprehension.

“Oh Richard.  What have you been doing?”  He doesn’t answer.  He’s not twelve, to be quizzed about his girlfriend by his mother and then given _the talk_.  “How long has this been going on?”  He doesn’t reply to that either.  His mother peers closely at him, thankfully stopping talking.  At least for a minute.  Eventually, she seems satisfied with whatever she thinks she reads on his face.

“Be careful, Richard.”  That’s hardly what he’d term a new insight.  He’s known he needs to be careful since a week in.  He just hasn’t always managed it.

 “Don’t interfere, Mother.”   He collects his coffee and leaves her staring at the wrong side of the closed study door.

It’s been an...interesting...day.  He has a new respect for the subtle nastiness of the old Chinese curse.  _Interesting_ days are very over-rated.  On the other hand, the end of it has been – almost – worth the suffering.  For him.  He doubts that Kate would feel the same.  He sips his coffee, considers opening up his laptop and trying to write, decides that he’s got nothing to say on Nikki and Rook tonight.  Rather too much Kate and Rick wheeling in his head, to write Nikki and Rook. 

He leans back behind his desk, gazing unseeingly across the room, considering how they’d got to this point: starting with cherry scents and cherry pie – no.  Starting long before that, at a book party after he’d killed off Derrick Storm and couldn’t shake his writer’s block and was starting to get tired of endless streams of identikit pretty women brandishing Sharpies.  Take, for the plot of your new best-seller, one rich, ruggedly handsome, bored, arrogant writer who’s in danger of believing his own publicity; add one spiky, feisty, unimpressable, _hot_ detective with a back story; mix well with murder and a very heavy seasoning of good luck, and…well, eventually you end up here.  If you do a lot of growing up in a short space of time.  If you deal with your own insecurities.  If you change.

If you fall in love.

If, in some future dream-come-true, you could see her fall in love with you.

Which is something he is considerably unsure about, even now, even after she came to him tonight.  He can’t read her emotions reliably, she hides them so well.  He’s watched every twitch of her body, every expression on her face, every sweep of so much as an eyelash, for over eighteen months, and when it comes to this, the most important piece of observation, he is completely blind.  It’s covered so completely by her absorption in her mother’s case: her inability to choose.  He won’t make her choose.  He’s sure that she wouldn’t choose him.  And that’s why he won’t make her choose.  She can’t overcome ten years, a whole adult life, in, essentially, less than three months.  She can only overcome that if she progresses the case.  Whatever she does feel, she won’t let herself know it until she solves the case.  She’s gone as far as she can in admitting it’s not casual, coming here tonight for support.  This far, and no further, unless she can progress the case.

He takes himself to pyjama pants, a swift wash and his side of the bed, slipping in quietly so as not to disturb the tight-curled body across from him.  He strokes a hand over her hair, worms down beside her, resists all further temptation to touch. One touch might lead to another, and he doesn’t think that’s a good plan.  She needs sleep and solace, not a reprise of the fabulous, disastrous, emotion-laden sex that started everything off on the wrong foot and took them all this time to get past.

Deep in the night he’s woken by Kate in the frantic throes of another nightmare, crying out for her mother.  He’d half-expected it: the stresses of the day not likely to be dispersed simply by a single outpouring of emotion, however intense. There’s nothing to be done but wrap her in against him, hold her till it stops, unpleasantly identical to the previous experience.  And that’s where she stays, all the rest of the night, so he can be sure that it won’t happen again.

When she wakes, a little later than normal, it takes a moment to work out where she is, and why.  This time she chose to stay here.  She vaguely remembers a nightmare.  She vaguely remembers the warmth that sent it away.  She very clearly notices that the same warmth is still surrounding her, safe, secure, comforting.  But it’s time to go home, wash, dress.  Time to start the day.

Time to break Johnny Vong.

* * *

 

It’s easy, in the end.  He thinks he’ll be safe in prison, so they run the line that there’s been a procedural screw-up, they can’t hold him, he’s free to go.  There’s his street clothes, his possessions.  He’s petrified.  And so when Beckett tells him if he spills she’ll protect him, he gives them everything they need to know.  Everything turns out to mean the saintly Dick Coonan, uses Afghani schools to cover the heroin trade, hired a professional to kill his own brother.  A name: Rathborne.  Beckett doesn’t flinch when she hears it.  They’ll need to ask Coonan how to find him.  Vong gets what he wants, safely locked in a cell again.

But when she’s out of Holding, Beckett’s shaky with reaction.  Ten years, and now she has a name to put to her mother’s killer.  All her work, all her nightmares, and now she has a focus, a breakthrough.  She can’t seek physical comfort here, there are cameras everywhere in the public areas.  Even up in the bullpen, it’s hardly possible to find a private space.  She straightens her shoulders and wraps Detective Beckett back around her.

Castle watches her pull cold professionalism around her like a mantle, feels her withdraw into the hard shell of Homicide cop, the moment of vulnerability, of reaction, gone as if it had never arrived.  There’s nothing in her voice or demeanour that will give the slightest tinge of weakness when she  confronts Coonan.  Rigid compartmentalism clearly has its uses.


	42. They Never Yield

Acting on Vong’s information, they’re laying out the case on Coonan the younger, and when he challenges Beckett, she brings him in and leaves him in Interrogation to sweat for a while.  Though given what she’s already learned about him, it probably won’t make much of a difference.

They’re watching Coonan from Observation.  He’s cool, seems unbothered by his arrest, unimpressed, unaffected by the intimidating surroundings.  Beckett’s still in her professional shell, as brittle as crystal.

“Are you OK?”

She sounds far away, in time, in place, as she replies; looking down past the years.

 “Ten years and every time I cross the tape at a crime scene I think of that night.”  He can see the edges of her control starting to crumble, the cloak surrounding her beginning to fray.  He has to bolster, reassure, give her _something_ to keep it together.

“That’s what makes you such a great cop.”  It’s only truth, but her next words make it clear that praise, however true and deserved, is not the right way; merely increases the pressure on her, adds to the pressure she’s putting on herself.

“What if I let her down?”

Back to what she said in the rustic Italian: _I wouldn’t let anyone down_.  It’s her motto.  If she moves further down this line of self-blame and insecurity she won’t be able to do what she needs to.   There’s one other route he can take to support her.  He keeps his face utterly serious.

 “Do you know why I chose you as my inspiration for Nikki Heat?”

“No, why?” She’s obviously expecting some piece of serious psychological reasoning.

“ ‘Cause you’re tall.” It’s such a silly, trivial statement, coupled with his wide, _got-you-that-time_ smirk, that she snaps out the spiral of insecurity and smiles back, slightly shakily but certainly Detective Beckett again.

 “Now, go in there and do your job.”  And suddenly she can again, standing on the firm span of unquestioning support, floating over the smooth strong current of his other feeling that she can’t afford to stop and analyse, but can simply trust to carry her through this next step.

She goes in alone: Athena in cop guise.  Castle’s watching in Observation: there’s no trace of her insecurity of five minutes ago, no crack in the carapace.  But she can’t break Coonan: can’t get through the smug viciousness.  He’s jabbing incessantly at her weak spots, each blow bouncing off less rapidly: but still she’s _doing her job_ , each strike that’s avoided or absorbed another victory.  Her strength shames him: how can he ever measure up to the standard she sets?  His own insecurities re-emerge: can he ever be good enough, be enough, for her?  Except.  Except last night she came to him.  Except not half an hour ago she needed him.  Except, whatever his flaws and insecurities and unworthinesses, he gives her something she needs.  Something she can’t give herself.  And in return she makes him more.

While he’s been watching, for all Beckett’s skill at interrogation there is no progress.  Coonan clearly knows something, but for all the cruel words around _if I had to guess I’d say that someone close to you was murdered_ – Castle winces, hearing an echo of his long-ago words to Beckett, back when she was just another story, just a woman who he’d _make_ interested in him, back before he loved her – he isn’t giving anything away, isn’t slipping in his story.  When Coonan sets out his ultimatum and offers up Rathborne in exchange for complete immunity, the only thing left for Beckett to do is agree to put it to the DA.

She doesn’t expect it to be accepted, but the DA bites on the deal with, (at least to Beckett’s cynical mind) considerably less fuss than she’d anticipated.  Catching a contract killer is clearly good for the political chances.  And the PR. 

Problems arise when they start to hammer out the deal.  Coonan describes Rathborne in considerable detail and they concoct a trap, based on a hit on Vong.  So far, so good.  Until Coonan says that Rathborne will need $100,000 up front, non-negotiable.  The city, being at least as underfunded as any other metropolis, hasn’t got that sort of money, or isn’t prepared to invest it in the hope of the DA’s getting good publicity.  Beckett watches her chance of catching her mother’s killer recede like the Staten Island ferry.  She can’t believe that she’s got this close and it’s all going to fall apart because New York is broke.  Until Castle, quite unexpectedly and in a harshly decisive tone that she’s never heard before, speaks.

“You can’t.  I can.  This one’s on me.”

“Castle!”  She’s horrified.  _He’s doing this for me_ , she thinks.  It’s not a pleasant thought.  Maybe it should be: maybe she should be utterly delighted that he’d do this for her.  But she’s not.  That’s a public statement she’d very, very much rather he wasn’t making.  It’s not like it’s coffee, or even lunch or dinner or a red dress for a black tie event, something that’s clearly trivial against the resources she knows he can deploy.  It’s a _hundred thousand dollars_.  It’s too big.  It’s too much.  It’s a huge statement of commitment, or intent.  She can’t possibly allow this.  But while all this has flickered through her mind, it’s already too late to object.

 “Do we have a deal?” Castle’s saying, still in that same harsh tone.

 “We do.”  It’s too late.

“But my client’s immunity kicks in the moment Rathborne accepts the contract.  Once the wire transfer’s complete.” 

It’s agreed.  Done.  She had absolutely no say in it.

* * *

 

The minute they are out of Interrogation Beckett pushes him into a conference room, clearly angry with him putting up the money.

“You _cannot_ just lay out a hundred thousand as if it’s chump change.  I can’t let you pay it.”

“I just did.  I get you coffee; you let me do that.  So why not this?”

“That’s completely different.  It’s a _hundred thousand dollars,_ Castle.”

He looks just a little embarrassed.  He’s never exactly hidden that he’s wealthy, but he’s also never exactly let on just _how_ wealthy.  $100,000 isn’t even going to register as an adjustment to the roundings on his next broker statement.  It’s not quite coffee, but it’s pretty close.  After the initial high of having seemingly unlimited money from his first book, and the usual youthful stupidities that had led to, he’d wised up pretty fast.  He’d had enough of the hand-to-mouth existence of parts of his childhood; he’d never wanted to experience that again.  And when Alexis came in prospect, financial security became vital.   So he’d researched extensively, retained a broker he trusted, and paid attention to what he was told.  His annual investment income exceeds his book royalties several times over, now.  If he’d needed to put up a million, it still wouldn’t have made the slightest dent.

“I can easily afford it. It’s done now.  You can’t stop me.”

“I’ll pay you back.  I won’t be beholden.”  Even to Castle.  Especially to Castle.  There’s enough potential imbalances already around them without adding money to the mix.  Even if he’s not buying her, her immediate reaction is to feel bought.

“No.”  He knew this would happen the minute he laid the money on the interrogation table.  But he _will_ give her this help.  It’s not protection.  It’s a necessary step to continue the investigation.  He has to help her progress her mother’s case.  It’s the only way, he thinks, that she’ll move further forward with him.  Though he’d have done this for her whether or not they move forward, whether or not she’d been with him at all.  He’s not, absolutely not, trying to buy her.  Still, some explanation, however embarrassing, is necessary, or she might just go back and unpick the deal he’s made.  “You won’t.  Do you have _any_ idea how much the first Nikki Heat book has made, so far?”

“No.  Should I care?”

“The advance alone was over a million dollars.  Sales went through the roof and you _know_ that I signed a deal for a further three books.  The advance for those was more.”  He doesn’t say how _much_ more.  She’s looking appalled enough already.  He’s never wanted her to realise the financial gulf between them: it would just become another excuse for a barrier.  She may have more resources than your average New York cop but not spectacularly so.  “And as the inspiration for the series,” – he doesn’t say _muse_ , which will likely get him shot – “because it wouldn’t have been written without you, you’re entitled to a share.  And that’s what this is.  Ten percent of the advance seems very reasonable.  It’s less than Gina takes.  So stop arguing.  You’ve earned this.” 

It’s the one argument she can’t easily counter.  She keeps arguing, but for every point she makes there’s an answer.  In the end, he simply says that it’s an advance payment on his taxes and if she wouldn’t pay the city back if they’d put up the money then she isn’t paying him back, and refuses to engage in any further debate. 

She stays polite but withdrawn all afternoon, and in the early evening declines an invitation to come back to the loft for dinner with him.  It’s precisely what he expected.  She needs the space to process everything.  And, he supposes, although it’s a trivial amount to him – though not a trivial action - it was hardly a wholly discreet statement.  The bullpen’s probably buzzing with it.  Though he notices that neither Ryan nor Esposito – nor indeed Montgomery - have mentioned it at all, which is odd, because he can’t believe they don’t know.

* * *

 

In her own apartment Beckett is trying to understand what on earth Castle is playing at.  Except he wasn’t _playing_.  He sounded very serious indeed.  Even for Castle, surely $100,000 is a number you stop and think about?  Because if it _isn’t_ a number he stops to think about, that’s terrifyingly rich.  She doesn’t play in those leagues.  She can’t; and never wants to.  She thought they’d dealt with the gossip column problem.  Here’s another, similar but so much larger.  She’d managed to ignore the disparity in wealth because it had never been relevant: coffee and the occasional meal don’t count, even red evening dresses were – well, not _forgettable_ : it‘s far too good a dress to be forgettable – but not meaningful.  This is only too meaningful.  Rather like last night’s expression - oh. 

_I will do anything that you need._   He knows she needs to solve her mother’s case; he knows she needs not to have to choose between the case and him; he thinks this is the best way to meet both needs (and he’s right), and he has, clearly but appallingly, the money to make it happen.  He isn’t even making a decision for her, because technically he is funding the DA’s office to pursue a line of investigation on a current homicide case.   The cash has nothing to do with a ten-year old cold case.  That’s a razor-blade narrow distinction without a difference.  It’s how he’s described it, when they were arguing earlier, but she knows he’s doing it because of her mother.  He’s doing it because of her.

_I will do anything that you need._   That’s one part of this.  Then there’s the other part.  The part she isn’t thinking about.  The part she doesn’t want to think about.  The part that means she might have to make some choices, soon.  The expression on his face when he saw her, when he said that, when she went towards him, not away.  The point of realisation.  She knows perfectly well what it means, where he stands.  But she doesn’t know where _she_ stands.

Her mother’s case, the emotion, the history, the pain, is all too raw again.  She has to find Rathborne, see him charged, finish this, clear it up.  She can’t see a future past that.  She can accept emotional support, show she’s serious, but she needs to close this case; her mother’s case.  And to do that, to move forward, she will have to accept that he’s made this payment.  She’s this far in, so much further than she ever thought she’d get, but can’t go further, not yet.  She’s not ready to make that decision, the choices it entails. 

She taps out a text.  _Thank you. See you tomorrow._

* * *

 

Castle sees the text with considerable relief, which is hardly, even now, an unusual position for him to be in.  He reads it with moderate accuracy as meaning _I’m accepting your help but I need a night alone to deal with it_.  Which is a great deal better than frozen silence, which would mean _you have overstepped the mark (again) and I’ve shut down._ Happy that he hasn’t been shut out, he makes dinner for his family with enthusiasm.  When his mother gives signs that she might want to ask questions, he produces a _speak-and-you-will-never-get-to-use-my-credit-cards-ever-again_ scowl and her mouth snaps shut.

Although much later on there is an irritatingly large space around him in bed, on balance it has turned out a pretty good day.  Though he’d better ring his broker first thing in the morning or the bank transfer won’t go through. 

* * *

 

The sting is ready to go next morning.  There’s a Vong lookalike (some poor detective who will never be allowed to forget this resemblance) getting jacketed up: Ryan and Esposito ready to play the cops transporting him.  They know how much this means to Beckett, and they’re juiced.

Waiting in the precinct, Beckett’s pacing, sitting, fretting, chewing her lip and frowning.  She’s wired tight, can’t settle, all her world bound up in the sting playing out across town.  She’s barely conscious that Castle’s there, watching with concern, and more.  She lets herself sense the concern.  She doesn’t let herself think about the rest of the emotions he’s displaying.  She hasn’t got the mental capacity for anything other than this, the best chance she’s ever had to solve her mother’s case.  She’s absolutely focused. 

There’s noise and shouting and Ryan and Esposito have taken someone down and Beckett is just about to believe it’s over at last – when they report that it’s just some suit reaching for a phone, in the wrong place at the wrong time.  She’s strung even tighter.  And then they report that Rathborne hasn’t shown, and she crashes.  It’s a struggle not to cry: to hide how distraught she is. 

“I let her down. Rathborne’s in the wind. Coonan’s about to walk. I missed something.”  It’s the agonised voice he’s heard in her nightmares, but now she’s fully awake.  He can hear her wordless screaming _I failed, I failed again_.  Nothing could be worse for her: to be so close and for it all to collapse at the last hurdle.  He waits for her to break again.

She shuts down instead.  She doesn’t break here: not in the precinct. She’ll do it at home, in private.  He tries to take the blame, maybe his money was traced, but she tells him putting the cash up was _sweet_.  Sweet.  It makes it sound trivial and simple and maybe it was both practically but it wasn’t either emotionally, and yesterday she knew it wasn’t _sweet._   She’s shut down and retreated and yet again her mother’s case is clawing back every inch of progress she’s made towards him and all he can do is stand here and watch it happen and wait.  He’s clinging to the hope that last time he waited she came to him, so maybe she can do the same again.  But here they’re in public so it isn’t going to be now.

He doesn’t touch her, doesn’t speak.  She’s not _seeing_ him.  She’s not seeing anything.  She’s reviewing (he can tell) every step she’s taken: every piece of evidence she’s considered, every decision she’s made: searching for the error, the oversight.

There in front of them, as they come out the break room into the bullpen, is Coonan, on his way to be released, smirking in triumph.  And suddenly Beckett sees what she missed.

 “Coonan said it was a hundred grand to catch _her_ killer.”  He sees it as soon as she says that.  He’d missed it too, he who lives and dies by the precision of his words.

“You never told him it was your _mother_ that was murdered.”  It was Coonan himself, and he’s about to walk.

They beard him just as he’s signing for his possessions.

“Clever girl,” and Coonan whips the gun from the uniform who was signing him out and rams it into Castle’s back.  Beckett is just too far away to stop it, to take him down.  Her surroundings narrow to Coonan, his hidden hands gripping the gun, and Castle, standing with the gun in his back and absolutely not supposed to be in this sort of situation.  He shouldn’t be here.  If she gets this wrong he’s going to die and that will all be her fault: another shattering failure to add to her failure to solve her mother’s death.  If she’d noticed Coonan’s slip earlier they wouldn’t be in this situation: Castle wouldn’t have a gun in his kidneys.  Fresh guilt threatens her hard-earned control.  If Castle dies… she doesn’t want to, can’t, think about that.  Focus.

“Here’s what’s gonna happen.  We’re just gonna stroll on over to the elevator, together.  Nice and easy.”

Beckett shakes her head. “That’ll never happen.”

Coonan is talking again. “You make a sound, an attempt to signal, you so much as clear your throat: I put a round in this man’s liver and he will die slowly and in considerable pain.”  She can’t let that happen.  But she can’t afford to think about why.  One focus.  Get everyone out of this alive.

She takes her hand off her gun.

“Let’s go,” says Coonan.

She’s trained for this.  She’s a cop, and this is a civilian in a hostage situation.  She stops thinking of him as _Castle._ She can’t afford to have this be personal.  She has to block out any thoughts of what she wants or needs or could have.It’s a civilian in danger, and she locks out all emotions and starts to operate in each individual instant, no extraneous thoughts.  She needs to save the civilian and to do that she needs to keep Coonan from firing.  Focus. Step.

She sees Montgomery look up from his discussion in the bullpen and pick up the small signs of trouble.  He’s ready to act, but Coonan’s made it clear that anyone shooting will mean _the civilian_ dying slowly of a lead-ventilated liver.  Focus.  Step.

“Even before I arrested you, you knew my mom was your victim.”  She’s trying to interrogate him even as they move slowly towards the elevator.  She needs to keep him talking.  If he’s talking he might just slip again, and she’ll learn something.  If he’s talking, he might just get distracted and she can save the civilian.  She’s looking coldly for her opportunity.  She’s walled off everything else.  Focus.  Step.

“Wasn’t personal.  Hey, she was just another job.”  As if he’d been taking out the trash.  Focus.  Step.

“She was my _mother_.  Who hired you to kill her?”  She can’t afford to get emotional: she has to stop that, keep the pain away.  Focus.  Step.  There is nothing else apart from asking questions and saving the civilian.  Both equally important.  No choices between the two.  Focus.  Step.  There is only the time between here and the elevator.  Focus.  Step.

“Forget it.  You’ll never touch him.”  So there is something behind the killing.  Not just a gangland shootout, but something much bigger.  She files it for later.  Focus.  Step.

“Tell me who”  – and then Montgomery’s taken stance with his gun up and it’s all about to go to hell and Beckett’s yelling _no no Sir I need him alive_.  Which him is not specified.  She couldn’t have said, if she’d been asked. 

”You do need me.  Now back him off or Castle dies.”  She can’t have that.  There’s got to be a way to have both _the civilian_ and Coonan alive.  She just has to find it.  Focus.  Bring Montgomery down from shooting stance.

“Sir. Back off. Please.”

“You know I can’t do that,”  Montgomery sounds almost regretful.  He knows what this means.  Someone’s going to die.

Coonan jacks a round into the chamber.When she looks back at Castle – no, _the civilian_ : it’s got to be _the civilian_ or she won’t be able to do this because she has to keep her emotions out of it - he’s trying to tell her something.  He’s got a plan.  There’s no time to think about it, worry about how to do it.  Focus.  She’s got to get Montgomery to lower his gun.

“If you wanna learn who ordered the hit on your mommy you’d better make sure I make it outta here.” 

Castle - _the civilian_ \- shakes his head at her minimally: whatever he’s thinking, he’s not ready if Montgomery shoots.  Beckett’s desperation for Montgomery not to do anything is all over her face.   If he shoots Coonan she’ll never get answers.  If he misses, Castle – _the civilian_ – will get shot.   Neither is an acceptable outcome.  Focus.

“Roy, _please,_ ” she pleads.  And he lowers the gun and eases his stance and one flashpoint is doused.  Everybody’s still alive.  All the choices are still open.  She still has this.  Focus.

“That’s right, Roy,” Coonan says, as relaxed and smooth as if it’s a Sunday walk in Central Park. “Nice and easy.  Nice and easy.”

And then the civilian – _Castle –_ moves and all the choices reduce to just one.


	43. As Lucifer Fell

Beckett raises and shoots to kill almost by instinct when Castle rears back and smashes Coonan’s nose, giving her the clear shot.  She’s made her choice: live Castle over dead mother.  But she’s still performing chest compressions long minutes after it’s clear Coonan’s dead, pretending she’s not crying even as the tears drip into the pooling stain over his heart.  Castle’s just standing, white and shocky, staring down at her, knowing what she’s done, what she’s lost.  Montgomery, Ryan and Esposito are all staring in the silenced bullpen. Every one of the three knows what she’s just given up. Every one of them can see the choice she’s made.  But not one man will dare to say it, not while Beckett’s kneeling over the corpse of her mother’s killer, crying silently.

Castle lays a hand on her shoulder, persuades her off the corpse, but can’t do any more.  He can’t arrange his own thoughts, can’t get past the harsh reality that is the last few minutes, the corpse on the floor, Beckett’s tears.

When the morgue attendants take the body away, start to clean the blood from the floor, it’s Montgomery who lays his hand on Beckett’s arm and persuades her out of the bullpen.  Castle is still standing frozen where it all happened, unable to process that he’s not bleeding out himself, not dead.  He feels sick, drained, exhausted.  Ryan and Esposito are gazing at him, but it’s Ryan who eventually steers him to the locker-room and presents him with a washcloth.  Slowly Castle begins to clean up.  Shock has made his legs shaky, his hand tremble.  Water spills down his shirt as he’s unconsciously gripping and relaxing on the washcloth.  Ryan’s watching him closely, empathy laced with something else.  Castle’s in no state to identify it.

“You know that she just shot her best chance at answers to save you.”  It doesn’t register.

“She didn’t hesitate.  She could have tried to shoot for disablement, but every cop knows that’s risky.”  She what?  He’s too drained to understand.

“So she went for the sure kill.”  His bewilderment is plain.  He thinks Ryan’s trying to tell him something vital, but he can’t get a handle on reality.  Unnoticed, Esposito’s sidled in.

“What Ryan means is that Beckett made the shot that was sure to save you, not the one that risked you.”  The words hang heavy in the air.  “Even though she knew it would kill Coonan.” Espo pauses.  “Even I’d have thought twice about trying for disablement, and I’m a better shot than Beckett’ll ever be.  I’d have shot to kill too.  But with all her feelings about her mother...”  He doesn’t finish.  He doesn’t need to.  They all know what he isn’t saying.

Ryan carries on.  “She knew if she took that shot she’d never get answers from him: he’d be dead.  But she fired anyway.  Didn’t even blink.”

“She chose you, Castle.  Over her mother.”

Finally what they’re telling him sinks in.

“Where is she?  Where’s Kate?  I need to find her.”  He’s hyper, frantic with half-metabolised adrenaline and this new knowledge.

“Montgomery’s dealing with her.  Gotta follow procedure after a shooting.”

But Castle is already out the door.

* * *

 

Montgomery’s put Beckett in a cab home, only after she flatly refused any companion.  He wouldn’t let her drive, took her keys.  But she has to be out the precinct, now he’s taken the statement, till the review takes place.  It’s what always happens when there’s a firearm discharge.  This time there’ll be no question about the circumstances, the necessity.  The whole bullpen could see the civilian in clear and present danger. 

She’s stopped crying, stares out the cab window at the dismal wintry streets.  It’s not sleeting, but it’s close.  She doesn’t notice paying the cab, getting into her apartment.  She’s cold and shivering and there’s a dead, empty space in her chest.  All she can do is slump on the couch.  All she can see when she closes her eyes is Coonan’s face as the bullet hits, falling away from Castle – _the civilian_ \-  the spreading pool of bright arterial blood.

She’s lost her only chance to find out why her mother died.  She didn’t even hesitate.  _Fidelis ad mortem_.  Faithful unto death.  Who’s she been faithful to?  Not her mother.  She pours herself a stiff drink and downs it in one.  For the first time, she understands why her father resorted to Jim Beam.  She has to be stronger than that.  But finding oblivion is so very, very tempting.

She’d chosen saving the live civilian over solving the cold case.  It’s what she had to do.  No cop worth the badge could have made a different choice.  But she could have taken the disabling shot:  less certain, more risky.  She’s a good shot, but not that good.  She had to shoot to kill.  There was no other option.  Save the civilian.

Save Castle.

There was no other choice.  She had to save Castle.  She’s wracked by the shame that her own feelings made her take the kill shot, the certainty, rather than the disabling one.  But if she’d shot to disable, she could so easily have failed.  Fail one way, fail another.  Whatever choice she made, she’d let someone down.  Whatever she’d done, she’d have failed someone.  She’s sacrificed her mother to save Castle and she’s drowning in her guilt.  Even though she had no choice.

She takes her mother’s file out and stares blankly at it, stupidly, blind in the dark, as small drops distort the photos, the typing.  It’s not finished.  Now she knows the killer.  There will be a trail from Coonan to the perpetrator.  And she will find him.  It’s the only hope to cling to, to assuage the acid burn of guilt.

* * *

 

Montgomery’s back in his office when Castle crashes in. 

“Where’s Kate?  Where’d she go?  I need to find her.”

“Shut the door, son, and sit down.  Going off half-cocked isn’t going to help anyone.  Now.  You need to go home, get cleaned up properly.  You don’t want your family to see you in this state.  You certainly don’t want Beckett to.  Take a shower, calm down, have a drink.  And then before you go haring off to find Beckett, you make sure you know what you want.  ‘Cause right at this moment she sure won’t.  She’s on administrative leave till the firearm discharge review.  She’s at home.  She wouldn’t take anyone with her, but she should be with someone.”   He looks meaningfully at Castle.  “I’ll swing it so that the review is in a couple of days, rather than being heard tomorrow.  She’ll need her car keys.”  He tosses them to Castle.  “Go make this work.”

* * *

 

It’s much later.  Beckett’s huddled emptily in her sofa, staring at the empty glass, staring down temptation and oblivion alike in a pitch dark apartment, just as she has since she downed the whiskey.  The door sounds.  She doesn’t move, doesn’t care.  There’s no way back from the choice she’s made.  Her phone chimes.  It’s a text.  It simply says _Don’t shut me out.  Please._

She gets up and stumbles blindly to the door, opens it, turns away again, back towards the corner of the couch, all without a word or look.  Behind her Castle follows in the wake of her chill silence, watching her walk away, walled up in her own little world.

“Kate.  Let me help.”  It’s how they began.  It’s very possible that this is how they end.  But she’s let him in; she hasn’t told him to leave.

When she eventually speaks, it’s the sharp edge of broken glass cutting through the air. 

“I had to choose.  _I had to._ ”  There’s nothing to say to that.  He’s alive because she chose.  “I’ve let her down.”  It’s defeated, diminished, drained.

“No.”  It’s strong and confident.  “You haven’t.  Your mother fought for justice.  You killed her killer.  That’s justice.”

“He was just an instrument.  Someone paid him, and now I’ve lost the chance to find out who.  _I chose to lose it._ ”  She’s backed as tightly into her corner as she can be, as far away from him as is possible, feet tucked in, arms folded across her.  It’s not even deliberate: it would be easier to deal with if it were.  It’s an automatic response to unbearable pain.

“I didn’t want to have to choose.”  She doesn’t say _you said I could have both_.  He remembers saying that.  He hopes she doesn’t.  He hasn’t been able to give her both, and he is not at all sure that she can deal with having chosen the way she has.  But – she opened the door.  She knew it was him and she opened the door.  This is not that very first night, when he pushed her into letting him in: this is her choice.  Just like then, she needs some company: she’s upset.  _Upset_.  Such an inadequate word, then and now: she’s devastated, but he can do this better than before. 

He moves carefully closer, alert for any signs that she wants him to move back, places his large hand gently on to her shoulder, arm around her.  No kissing, no stroking the face, the lips, nothing that expects or entices or seduces or demands.  It’s the asexual comfort of a partner, not the passionate presence of a lover.  She doesn’t respond, back to the static, passive, non-reactive shell.  He’d thought she might be past that, after she came to him two nights ago.  All to do again.  All because Coonan had got the drop on him.  There’s a quick bite of guilt in his chest.  But that’s no help.  He couldn’t have prevented it.

“I didn’t ever think I’d have to choose.  And then I did have to and I let her down.”  He can hear the tears that aren’t falling from her eyes tumbling through her words.  “I had to choose to save you.”  His arm tightens reflexively around her and he consciously has to loosen it.  There are no words.  He waits as she scrapes out her thoughts.  “I had to choose life.  She’s dead and I couldn’t save her life.  But I could save yours.”  Her head is down.  “So I did.”  Each breath is harsh, grating: he can feel the jerked out tension of her speech.  “I couldn’t let you die too.”  She stops, inhales, exhales only pain. 

“Everyone I care about suffers.  I’m not safe to be around.”  He knows what she’s about to do.  He’s seen her do this before.  “You should quit now, while you’re still alive to do it.”  And there it is.  Another attempt at martyrdom, another brick rebuilding her wall.  He won’t allow it, not now that she has finally admitted in whole words that she cares about him.  She’s never said it before, only permitted it to be inferred from other words, but now she’s said it and he is not letting her go.

“No.  I _said_ I was staying around.  I’m not leaving you.  You can’t scare me into going.”  He has to stay in control of his emotions.  He _cannot_ afford to do what he wants and declare himself, pull her hard against him and kiss her, make love to her, till she acknowledges the truth.  They began, fatally, in avoidance sex.  They will not end that way.  Not if he can help it.  He forces himself to loosen his arm still further.  There’s only one way to get through this: take a scalpel to the suppurating shame.  

“Kate.  Why are you feeling guilty for saving my life?  I would be dead if you hadn’t taken the shot.”  She doesn’t answer.  He didn’t expect her to.  “You would have taken the same shot for Ryan, or Esposito, or _anyone_ in that position.”  Still no response.  “You didn’t do it because it was me” – it sounds appallingly arrogant, but he’s got no choice now – “you did it because no matter who Coonan had a gun to you knew that you wouldn’t be sure to save them if you went for a disabling shot.  Not even Esposito could have guaranteed that.  You wouldn’t have risked the life of any person.”  He stops, briefly.  If she’s crying, in the dark he can’t see it, in the silence he can’t hear it.  His arm is too loose to tell if there’s a shiver in her tight-wrapped position. 

She needs to break, she needs to release all her emotions.  If she stays locked in like this she’ll never recover.  “You would have made that same choice no matter who it was.”  Still the stretching silence, the weight of guilt and shame bowing her fragile frame.  “Kate.”  He has to go for broke.  Everything else has failed him.  “You didn’t sacrifice your chance at your mother’s killer because you care about me” – he still can’t use the word _love_ where her feelings are concerned: though he’s close to certain now; that’s still a step further than he can count on – “but because you’re a great cop.”  Breathe, and take one last stride over the precipice, praying for a parachute to stop him, her, them landing broken on the rocks below.  “And I love you for it.”  And for so much more.

She takes a wrenching breath and lets the tears fall.  Yet again, his honesty has broken her: this time, he’s ripped them both open and laid it all out.  His courage in speaking leaves her helpless to hold back the maelstrom of emotion, dragged under at last.  His arm’s around her, still loosely, as she sobs, all the remaining grief over her mother pouring out of her, ten years of pain released, ten years of  control shattered.  She’s given up, given in.  And like two nights ago, at last she turns into him, not away, and he finally holds her tight, offers up the comfort of his strength and the depth of his feelings.

 _I will do anything that you need_ , he’d said.  He’d waited for her to come to him, he’d assured her that he’d not _protect_ her; he’d given her the support she’s never had; he’d paid, and lost, a frighteningly large amount of money just in case it would solve her mother’s case; and now he’s come here, taking the chance that she’d completely shut him out, because he knew she’d need him to deal with the choice she had to make.  He’s given her so much, and what has she given him?  Here she is again, relying on him to pull her broken personality back together, crying like a child on his shoulder, and all she’s given him is the chance to be shot and die painfully.  He’s given her everything he can possibly give, and she gives nothing back, except her messed-up self.

“You can’t possibly,” she whispers desolately.  “I don’t deserve it.  I’ve given you nothing but a chance to be killed.  I only let people down.”  She’s pulling out his grasp, looking at the floor.

“ _You’ve given me nothing?_ ”  He’s sharp, incredulous, the words edged with bite and the acid tinge of anger.  “Except my life.  You _saved my life_.  I won’t let you reduce that to nothing.”

She hasn’t even given him his life, because he said it himself, she’d have done it for anyone.

“You said yourself, I’d have done it for anyone.”  She’s hoisted him on his own petard. 

“That’s not the point.  I won’t let you turn this into another reason to step away.  Yes, you’d have saved anyone.  But that doesn’t change the _fact_ that you saved me.  I chose to be there, to follow you around.  I’ve made my choices.  The results fall on me, not you.”  He pulls her back.  “You made the only choice you could, because that’s the person you are.  And you _will not_ pretend to yourself or to me that your choices have let anyone down and use that as an excuse to run away and hide.”

He stops for breath, and to calm down.  _Control, Rick_.  “Stop punishing yourself for something that _was not your fault_.”  Control be damned.  Maybe only harsh truth will make her see.  “Your mother’s death was not your fault.  Is this what she’d have wanted for you, pushing everyone away who cares for you, hiding in your own little walled-up world?  I don’t think so.  If you want to let her down, just keep on falling down your rabbit hole alone.”

“How do _you_ know what she would or wouldn’t have wanted?  How _dare_ you suggest I’m letting her down?”  He’s got her off unthinking, self-deceptive, lacerating misery and into anger.  If she’s angry, she’ll start to react, start to think. 

“Because I’m a parent too.  If it were Alexis I wouldn’t want her to be in the state you’re going back to.”

“I don’t need a parent.”  Bitterness edges the words.

“No, you don’t.  But you need someone to tell you the truth, to make you listen.”

And suddenly she’s taken right back to the thinking she’d done after Kyra, after the coffee bar.  What does she need?  Someone who’ll make her listen to harsh truth, who won’t let her push them away.  It’s time to stop punishing herself.  She’s come this far, and at the last she’s trying to run from it again, because she’s got an excuse: she chose wrongly.  But it’s not true.  Her mother would never have accepted her taking the coward’s way out; her mother would never have accepted any other choice she might have made back in the bullpen with a man’s life at stake.  She’s trying to hide because she’s scared, scared of this much bigger thing, scared she can’t be enough, give enough. 

Love enough.

She looks up from the floor.

 “I don’t know how to do this.”  She’s offering up truth, however inconvenient.  “I don’t know how to...”  she trails off, unsure where that sentence was going.  How to...what?  Talk?  Well, that’s certainly true.  Feel?  She knows, now, how she feels.  Show him?  Tell him?  Break her shell from the inside, finish what he’s started?  He’s laid himself open, written his feelings in bright arterial blood.  He loves her, and he’s said so, articulated here what she’d seen two nights ago and wouldn’t think about, because she thought she had her mother’s case sewn up.  It’s not sewn up, but she had to choose, life over death, civilian safety over cold-case answers, Castle over her mother.  Love over hiding.  Only one choice, in the end.

“I said I’d do anything that you need, Kate.”  Castle’s talking, trying to reach her through her reverie, watching her face for any hint of what she feels.  “And if what you need is for me to leave, then I will.  But you have to tell me you need me to go.  I’ve told you how I feel.  It’s your choice what you do now.”  It’s the hardest thing he’s had to do.   But it’s her choice.

It’s no choice at all.  “Stay,” she breathes.  “I need you to stay.”  And in it he hears everything.


	44. Teach Me Love

She turns back to him, lifts her face up, no shell, no concealment, all her emotions written in her eyes.  For the first time, he can read clearly where she stands, even in this dark room with the only light the orange glow of streetlamps through the window.  It’s enough.  _She’s_ enough, just as she is.  And though she hasn’t said the words, the way she’s looking at him leaves no more room for doubts or insecurity in his mind.

“You give me so much, Kate.  You’ve made me so much more than I was.  Never say that you don’t give me anything.  Just give me you.”

She can’t find words.  She’ll never use words like he does, but she can show him.  And so she draws his head down and kisses any more words out of his mouth and away.  For her, from her, actions speak so much louder than words.

It’s not a passionate kiss, not frantic or lustful or enticing or any one of the hundred different ways she’s kissed him before.  It’s soft and gentle and it’s Kate and it tells him everything he needs to know – though _stay_ told him that, too - as he brings her fully into him and holds her close.  If he waits for her words, he’ll probably have to wait for ever.  Fortunately he doesn’t have to: he can read her well enough, tonight, that he doesn’t need her words.  She’s made her choice, and it’s him.

And on that thought he changes from receiving tender affection to hard fierce kisses, taking possession, desperate to show her that he understands what she means, that she’s as far in as he is, as he  wanted her to be, that he knows she’s finally matched him step for step.  She responds in kind: if he’s possessive, she’s asserting her own ownership; no imbalances, no disparity.

“Come to bed, Castle,” she murmurs, moving away from his mouth and down across his neck, soft wet kisses offset by the edge of teeth, skin soothed by the swipe of tongue that’s anything but soothing to the hot arousal growing between them.  He growls into her hair when she bites down on the muscle at his shoulder and slips his hands under the back of her shirt, fingers flickering under the edge of her bra, round toward the curve of her breasts, pulling her straddled across him till she’s in just the right place for him to push up against her, make her gasp.  Bed.  Yes.  But he can’t bear _not_ to have her stay settled firmly there against him, so he starts to stand and she curls her arms around his neck and those unbelievably long legs around his waist and _oh yes_ that means she’s exactly where she, he, wants to be.

He drops her on the bed, both still fully clothed, comes to rest beside her, busies his fingers with the fastenings of her button-down, teasing and flicking as he goes, claiming hot wet kisses till she arches into him.  She tugs his shirt open, slides it off, tastes down the skin revealed till he pulls her back up and slides hard weight against her till they’re both half undone and desperate to be closer, skin to skin.   There’s no need for games, innuendo, teasing, tonight.  There’s no need to prove anything, no pressure to perform, nothing to avoid.  Just Kate and Rick, naked to each other in every way that matters.

She looks up at him, his eyes dark with need and behind that the love that she’s been denying to herself all this time, lets him see her own feelings.  And then no-one needs any more words: each touch an admission, each movement a confession, both of them sure, secure, unconflicted.

* * *

 

When he wakes the next morning, content and comfortable, Kate wrapped in his arms in the way he’s hoped for since the very beginning, everything is almost perfect.  But.  Still.  There’s unfinished business.  There’s a file on the table, and he knows what it is.  It’s the elephant still standing in the corner of the room.  He’d said he wouldn’t offer help, he’d wait till she asked.  He hopes quite desperately that she’ll ask him, because if they don’t resolve this now then they’ll just dance this same masochistic tango over and over every time the case comes up to bite them.  And it will, because no matter her choices she’ll never be able to leave it alone: every time she has a setback she’ll retreat and he’ll have to back off or follow and break her down all over again because the only way he gets her to move forward is to break her down.  Even if she’s admitted she cares, even though she’s accepted he loves her, if she doesn’t let him into the case it’ll never be wholly right.  But it has to be her choice.

He slides carefully out of bed and goes to put the kettle on, deliberately doesn’t look at the file on the table as he goes past.  He can feel the weight of its contents pressing down, depleting his happiness.

Before the coffee’s fully brewed Beckett has appeared, enticed by the aroma, winding her arms around his waist and leaning on him, stretching up when he turns round and cuddling in to kiss him good morning.  He’s only too pleased to respond in kind, trying to ignore the niggle of the presence of the file in the unequivocal affections she’s bestowing. 

 Coffee ready, they’re snuggled together in a way that he hopes will become the pattern of their mornings, hands close and fingers interlinked.  But still the file is there on the table, and when his gaze falls on it again he stops stroking the back of her hand momentarily, wishes briefly that it was shut away where it wouldn’t remind him that they aren’t quite aligned.  He returns the sliver of inattention that he’s expended on that thought back to her, slow affection in every movement. 

She’s noticed the momentary inattention, and the direction of his glance.  Ah.  Yes.  One thing left to do, to give.  She stretches away from him, ignoring the small unhappy protest as she pulls out of his encircling arm.

“Castle,” she says, leaning over.  “I need you to help with a case.”  She picks up her mother’s case file and hands him it. 

And all he hears is _I love you_.

* * *

**FINIS**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted on Fanfiction. Constructive criticism much appreciated, especially on the style and nature of the writing. Thank you.


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